K > 




.0 o 




- 



0° 





Published by _ ui.ihfud Str,iid.^pril. iz*i8o8. 



ESSAYS AND TALES, 

MORAL, LITERARY, AND PHILOSOPHICAL, 

BY M. ENGEL, 

AUTHQTWOF ESSAYS ON DRAMATIC GESTURE* 
FROM THE ORIGINAL GERMAN^ 

BY THOMAS HORNE. 



Qui, quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe $ quid utile, quidAon, 
Planius et melius Chtysippo ac Crantore dicit. 

HORACE* 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR J. COXHEAD, 420, STRANBj 
BV B. M C MILI.AN, BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 



1808. 



X 



ADVER TISE ME NT. 



THE literature of the Germans 
is hitherto bat imperfectly known to 
my countrymen. Its halcyon times are 
past, its meridian splendours eclipsed, 
and it is far gone in its Aphelion. In 
Germany, metaphysicians, like the so- 
phists of ancient Greece, have usurped 
the rank of fine writers, and have cor- 
rupted the genius of the rising genera- 
tion. 

The barbarians of Gaul have also 
accelerated this tragical event. Their 
Chieftain, like Brennus, his great pro- 
to type, commits ravages where he can 



vi 

find no gold. He has invaded the 
sanctuary of Alma Mater, and has 
subverted the Universities at Jena and 
at Halle, those ancient seats of Learn- 
ing and of the Muses. 

But the names of Goethe, Wieland, 
Herder, Schiller, and Lessing; of Voss, 
Klopstock and Gessner ; of the Count 
de Stollberg, Burger, Jacobi, and Kleist, 
still remain fresh in the remembrance 
of every patriotic German, and their 
writings are perused with avidity. 
We also possess some translations of 
these original Writers, but they are 
faint transcripts ; the beautiful tints 
are gone, the warm glow and fire of 
genius. Engel, author of the follow- 
ing performance, must also be num- 
bered amongst those fine writers who 



vii 

are the flower and chivalry of Ger- 
man literature. His diction is clas- 
sical, his imagery beautiful, and his 
moral sentiments refined. He ought 
therefore to appear before the tribunal 
of an English public. 

I have endeavoured to transfuse his 
spirit into this translation, and should 
it appear that my labours have not been 
altogether unsuccessful, I shall have 
the consolation of thinking that I have 
performed a task, which may in some 
degree be regarded as meritorious. 

THOMAS HORNK 



This Day tvas puhlished, printed on fine imve 
paper > price As. 6d. in boards, 

HISTORY 

OF THE 

RISE AND PROGRESS 

OF 

THE BELGIAN REPUBLIC, 

Until the Revolution under Philip the Second, including' 
a detail of the Primary Causes of that memorable 
Event. From the German of Frederic Schiller, 

By THOMAS HORNE. 

" Those who are acquainted with the writings of 
Schiller, and are admirers of his pen, will form high ex- 
pectations from a work on the subject of that before us, 
and will not find themselves disappointed. We shall be 
sparing of our remarks, that we may be more liberal in 
extracts ; yet, where almost all is eligible, how shall we 
select ? It is in our favour, however, that it would be 
difficult to quote any passage on which the reader of 
taste and intelligence, might not dwell with pleasure. 
The translator intimates, that it may serve as an intro- 
duction to Dr. Watson's History of Philip the Second. 
We respect that work, and paid it an honourable tri- 
bute; but it is not an edifice sufficiently elevated to ad- 
mit of such a portico as would thus be formed by the 
chef d'ceuvre before us, which would shame even the 
fabrics of Bentivoglio or Strada, were their foundations' 
as solid as their superstructures are elegant and im- 
posing." — Monthly Review^ Nw» 1807. 

Printed for J. Coxhead, No. 420, Strand. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



Fragments of a Journey to Mount Etna, . . 1 

Enraptured Trance of Las Casas, ......... 37 

The Goddesses, an Allegory, .......... 56 

Epistle of Mecaenas to Augustus Csesar, . . 7% 

Speech of a Physician at a Convivial Repast, 97 

Dissertation upon Death, in Two Dialogues, 110 

Dialogue on the probable Relapse into SuO M 



perstition, = e . . c . J 

The Oak and the Acorn, ........... v . . 203 

Remarks on the Moral Excellence of Poetry, 232 

Joseph Timm, 24§ 

Toby Witt, ......................... 260 

Elizabeth Hill, . . , . 271 

Vision of Galileo, 288 

The Hawk, 297 

The Receptacle for Lunatics, 3-2 Q 




ESSAYS AND TALES. 



FRAGMENTS 



OF 



A JOURNEY TO MOUNT ETNA. 
KNIGHT of Malta, of the newly in- 



stituted Bavarian order (tbe Count de 
S — ), converted a journey to Valetta, ori- 
ginally dedicated to ofiicial duties, into a 
more profitable peregrination of instruc- 
tion and delight; and during his route, 
took a survey of the most remarkable phe- 
nomena of the Italian and Sicilian states. 

A journal of this excursion, addressed 
to his friend Baron Thou, at Munich,' is 
interspersed with many accurate delinea- 
tions of productions drawn from the store- 
house of Nature and Art; but is chiefly 
remarkable for a copious harvest of philo- 
sophical reflections. By his special Ieave$ 




K 



2 

J have taken the liberty to make the fol- 
lowing extract from one of his letters, dated 
from Catania. 

u From Nicolosi, our route conducted 
us over vast desolate plains of inhospitable 
lava, equally unpleasant and fatiguing. 
At intervals, a distant perspective opened 
upon us, of blooming dales, and of hills, 
clad in luxuriant verdure ; but we were 
disqualified from relishing such-like scenes. 
Nature appeared absolutely to droop and 
languish under the sultry heats of the at- 
mosphere, not attempered by the balsamic 
effluvia of the vegetable kingdom, or alle- 
viated by the genial shades of the forest. 

" At length, as we advanced towards the 
second woody region of Etna, gales impreg- 
nated with odours, began to play around 
us, and with eager strides Ave quickened 
our pace towards those delightful bowers 
that seemed to invite us to repose under 
their shade. In other cases, expectation 
magnifies actual fruition, and a fierce de- 
sire for the attainment of some beloved ob- 
ject, greatly enhances its value; but here 
it was just the reverse. This was not simply 



3 



a Juan Fernandez, which, when contrasted 
with the barren, dreary waste of the ocean, 
might wear the semblance of a paradise : it 
was literally and truly a garden of Eden. 

" But upon what soil do you imagine 
the bountiful hand of Nature had planted 
this blooming garden, decorated with trees 
of the most luxuriant growth and foliage, 
reverberating with ravishing strains of har- 
mony, the storehouse of vegetation and of 
the lovely progeny cf Flora ? This soil is 
no other than that self-same adust mass of 
lava, which, in times of the highest anti- 
quity, spread devastation and terror around ; 
but now, after a long series of ages, ferti* 
lizes that very soil which was the theatre 
of its former ravages. Does not this mar- 
vellous transformation of fiery torrents into 
a fair blooming paradise, suggest an admi* 
rable image to the mind, of the wise eco- 
nomy of Providence, in the application of 
evil, in like manner as the resurrection of 
the butterfly from its sepulchre affords aa 
emblem of the immortality of the soul? 

u We had still a long march to perform 
to the woodbine cave, the ordinary noc- 
h2 



4 



turnal retreat of travellers, but we could 
not withstand the temptation of alighting 
from our mules, in order to repose upon 
the flowery carpet which enamelled the 
ground. The provision of wine we had 
made, presently slaked our thirst ; a cheer- 
ful glee and hilarity, which had deserted us 
shortly before, now added a new zest to our 
invigorated spirits ; and doubtless our hap- 
piness was as pure and perfect in this glo- 
rious amphitheatre of Nature, as that of 
Adam in his original state of innocence. 
I may also affirm, that the object of our 
journey breathed a corresponding spirit of 
piety and devotion : it was a sainted pilgri- 
mage, not in order to expiate ofTences, 
which can only be cancelled by sincere pe- 
nitence and reformation, but to worship 
the benevolent Parent of Nature in this ma- 
jestic temple of his creation. 

" Nevertheless, how voluptuous soever 
our present rendezvous might be, we quitted 
it without reluctance: an importunate dttt- 
cry of < Proceed ! Proceed !' reverberated, 
as if by common consent, on all sides, and 
this was onr watch-word, until we had 



5 



ascended the declivity. Our imagination 
pictured to itself a still more magnificent 
scenery, and made us turn aside from every 
beautiful prospect ; nay, even the most ra- 
vishing vistas could not captivate us for a 
moment. We were now at length arrived 
at the cave, where we intended to snatch a 
slight repose on a leafy couch, and await 
the hour of midnight in order to prosecute 
our journey. But, surrounded as we were, 
with such an unrivalled group of landscape 
paintings, it was scarcely possible for us 
to abandon ourselves to an indolent repose, 
before the final approach of nightfall. I 
freely confess that my animal spirits had 
never been more sprightly and vigorous at 
the dawn of Aurora, than they were at pre- 
sent at sun-set. 

" Our party now dispersed, and began 
to range about the country, some one way 
and some another; but my route conducted 
me to a circumjacent hill, perchance the 
self-same mount, whose perspective the 
British traveller (Brydone), delineates in 
such enraptured terms. In reality, there 
was ample cause for this ecstasy : for here 
b 3 



6 



a picturesque imagery discloses itself to 
your view in endless shades and unspeak- 
able variety : a Grecian Tempe and a The- 
ban solitude, crouded together upon one 
landscape, being respectively a foil to each 
other by their remarkable contrast : on one 
side an Elysium intersected with countless 
rural mansions, irrigated with streams, 
meandering in lovely serpentine mazes ; 
yonder the magnificent ruins of towns, here- 
tofore flourishing, and of majestic temples, 
whose drooping front over-canopies a con- 
solidated strata of petrified lava, of a rusty 
iron cast, stretching along for many leagues ; 
mournful monuments of the instability of 
terrestrial splendours! — then, the boundless 
spectacle of the ocean, laving its winding 
ineurvated shores, with islands floating 
upon its surface ; bordered with a coast 
impregnated with sands, rocks, and pro- 
miscuously sparkling with the luxuriant 
produce of Nature; swarming with ships, 
like so many crouded hives — but it would 
fee to no purpose to dissect this grand sce- 
nery in all its minuter parts — all this com- 
bined, I say, conveys the most profound, 



7 



and also the most singular impressions to 
the soul— impressions unspeakably volup- 
tuous, of which it is impossible to com- 
municate a semblance to one who is not 
an eye-witness. That glowing fancy which 
has furbished up the enchanted castles of 
fairies with such charming colours, and has 
painted the solitudes of hell with such a 
sombre pencil, has never yet produced a 
picture, such as Nature, the master artist, 
unfolds to the eye in this boundless, inimi- 
table landscape. 

" After my senses had been regaled with 
such a sumptuous banquet, my friend, in 
the course of one single day, which was 
closed with such a luscious entertainment; 
could my soul still harbour any wishes to 
gratify? Ought I not instantly to have 
repaired with inward satisfaction to my 
cave, and have postponed all future fruition 
until the dawn of the ensuing day? But 
whilst my eye was revelling amidst this ca- 
binet of original paintings, it glanced up- 
wards with wistful solicitude towards the 
peak of Etna, mantled in snows, and -pro- 
jecting its elevated summit many leagues 
b 4 



8 



above my head. If, cried I, the aspect 
of Nature be already so glorious and ma- 
jestic, when I have scarcely surmounted 
half the ascent, what am I to suppose it must 
be yonder, upon the brink of yon tremen- 
dous crater, where, in the back ground no 
ridge of mountains intercepts the boundless 
prospect of Sicily, of the ocean, of the fir- 
mament! where the dimensions of other 
altitudes dwindle away and shrink to mole- 
hills, ami where, perchance, the horizon 
dilates as far as the coast of Barbary, even 
to another quarter of the globe ! 

u I was bewildered in the labyrinth of these 
gigantic conceptions, of which my fancy 
drew a bold and glowing portrait, with the 
greater promptitude, because my senses were 
already intoxicated with actual fruition. 

" At length, my soul soaring insensibly 
to a still higher climax of enthusiasm, ex- 
pectorated its sensations in the following 
rhapsody. Alas! I exclaimed, did no 
raging tornadoes ravage yonder summit 
with ungovernable fury ; were it not over- 
spread with the sable wings of an eternal, 
inhospitable winter ; did no fiery torrents. 



9 



no eruptions of inflammable ashes, no sul- 
phureous steams, or ponderous fragments 
of rocks, hurl death and destruction around ; 
then peradventure I might construct an ob- 
servatory on yonder vertical point of Sicily 
and of Europe, regale my senses with a 
perpetual feast in glancing over a Creation 
of such transcendant beauty, and look 
down upon the follies of mortals, in like 
manner as the Godhead from the canopy 
of the heavens. What a bold, magnificent 
conception ! Alas ! it must ever remain a 
visionary project, a mere chimaera of the 
brain ! In reality, it was high time to mo- 
derate my transports, and to abridge this 
devout soliloquy ; for the evening shades 
began to prevail, and it was with the 
utmost difficulty that I groped my way to 
the cave by the last expiring glimpse of 
light. My demur had occasioned great 
uneasiness amongst my comrades; they 
made the forest echo with their shouts, in- 
somuch that they could not possibly hear 
the report of my voice, when I answered 
their signals. We instantly repaired to 
rest, and then resumed our journey, later 



10 



indeed than we proposed, but however, 
soon enough to arrive at the summit by 
sun-rise. 

" The opaque gloom which encompassed 
us around, but faintly irradiated at intervals 
by the pale glimmerings of the starry fir- 
mament ; the hollow dismal rumblings 
issuing ever and anon from the Mount ; the 
foliage of the forest rustling and quivering 
before the breeze ; the wind howling through 
the trees ; the craggy and rugged declivity 
which our mules ascended with a tardy 
pace, gasping for breath ; — moreover, all 
those imaginary terrors which a distem- 
pered fancy conjured up — those infernal 
gulphs, dreadfully yawning beneath us, 
whereupon perchance this stupendous ridge 
of mountains hung suspended, like the tot- 
tering superstructure of a bridge whose 
arches are in a ruinous mouldering state : 
all this association of images, I say, made 
us quake with dismal forebodings, and froze 
our blood with icy horrors. But what lan- 
guage can paint the anguish of our soul, 
when the Cyclops our conductor, suddenly 
accosted us, saying, c that he had lost his 



II 



track ; he dreaded lest he should conduct 
us to some spot, whence we might be hurled 
down a tremendous precipice ; he therefore 
conjured us, as we valued our lives, not to 
move one step, backwards or forwards!' 
Consequently we were compelled to arrest 
our mules, doubtful whether or not we 
stood on the brink of destruction, without 
resolution enough to move a limb, nay even 
to draw breath: in short, in a situation, 
the pangs and horrors of which beggar all 
description. 

" With the first dawnings of Aurora we 
had a glimpse of our danger, and beheld 
our apprehensions realized, but also dis- 
cerned the means of deliverance : we as- 
cended the pinnacle of Etna with unspeak- 
able transports of joy, although our un- 
lucky stars had blasted the fairest blossom 
of hope — a wish to arrive at the summit 
with the first twinkling of the sun-beams ; 
to be the first who welcomed the approach 
of this luminary, and mingle our voices 
in the harmonious concert of universal na- 
ture. 

" This fatal miscarriage of our fairest 



12 



hopes, makes me regard the undertaking as 
preposterous, should I attempt to emulate 
the British traveller (Brydone), in his pic- 
turesque perspective of Mount Etna ; for 
those exquisitely delicate touches, and those 
sublime beauties which glow in his descrip- 
tion, would be wanting in mine. However, 
my friend, do not grieve too much on this 
score, neither consider it as a heavy loss — 
you sustain no sensible injury by lacking a 
description of such-Ii ke scenes, communi- 
cated through the channel of human lan- 
guage, although it were the composition of 
a master artist. 

" You must enter upon this pilgrimage 
yourself ; you must ascend the rugged de- 
clivity of Etna : for this is the only rea- 
sonable price, whereby you can purchase 
the most voluptuous pleasure that any mor- 
tal can taste ; a portrait that not only eclipses, 
but even obliterates all other fanciful images 
— more glowing and majestic than the most 
brilliant fancy can conceive. — Nature has 
wisely ordained that it should be so : she 
has not decreed that the sluggard, idly re- 
posing upon his downy couch, and refusing 



13 



to listen to the urgent entreaties of his friend, 
to accompany him upon his journey; she 
has not decreed , I say, that he should par- 
ticipate the voluptuous sensations of the 
enterprising traveller, who resolutely en- 
countered the rugged paths of the Alps and 
Appenines, the pestilential gales of the 
Pontine marshes, whose baneful winds dis- 
seminate destruction, or the still more viru- 
lent poison of the Sirocco ; eluded the por- 
tentous fangs of Scylla, slighting heat and 
cold, dangers and fatigue, until he sur- 
mounted an altitude, which has always 
been reputed one of the prodigies of the 
universe. But whilst, from the windows 
of my apartment, feeing the Mount, I am 
gazing at the spectacle of Etna, I often 
propose the following queries to myself: is 
it possible, that I should repose here in Ca- 
tania, with such self-complacency ? Whence 
comes it, thai those raging, apparently 
unquenchable fires, which glowed within 
my bosom on the evening before my depar- 
ture, should have already subsided to such 
a remarkable degree of temperature ? that 
1 should contemplate yonder pinnacle (where 



11 

I forestalled that sumptuous banquet with 
which my senses were subsequently regaled) 
I will not say, with indifference (for I can 
never recollect those invaluable moments 
without enthusiasm and rapture, insomuch, 
that whenever my fancy is inclined to flut- 
ter upon the wing, it fondly expatiates 
there), but with such tranquil equanimity ? 
How ! supposing that observatory were al- 
ready constructed, which I fondly pictured 
to myself, were it not bespangled with eter- 
nal ice and snows, or assailed by the tem- 
pest; if the path conducting towards it 
were equally secure and practicable as the 
ascent of my native hills; provided this 
was the case, would I not invade this sanc- 
tuary once more ? Would I not chuse once 
more to bewilder my senses in the boundless 
perspective, and adore the majesty of the 
Creator in the centre of his Creation ? Most 
assuredly, again and again, with new pal- 
pitations of delight. But allow me to pro- 
secute my inquiries. Would I consecrate 
this spot as my residence in perpetuity? 
~W ould I seclude myself from society, and 
remain forever entranced in contemplating 



15 



this godlike spectacle ? I do not hesitate 
to answer in the negative, my friend. My 
fancy once harboured this monstrous con- 
ceit, but it will cherish the dear delusion 
no more. Then, the genial current of my 
blood was not benumbed with ftost; no 
dire forebodings urged me to accelerate my 
return before it was too late; no eruptions 
of the crater as yet appalled my senses, dis- 
gorging volumes of smoke and sulphur, 
in majestic tranquillity !— It was the first 
impulse of satiety ; a relaxation of fierce 
desire, now nearly extinguished by actual 
fruition, which inspired my comrades with 
sufficient resolution to sound a retreat; 
which finally subdued the stubborn con- 
flict of my soul, as jet staggering and wa- 
vering in its determinations; drove me 
from these icy plains to the woody regions, 
thence to the smiling valleys of spring, and 
last of all, within the ramparts of Catania. 
Thus did I make a twofold acquisition 
upon this hallowed eminence: my fancy 
was exalted with one of the most magnifi- 
cent images in the storehouse of Nature, 
and ray reason enlightened by one of her 



16 



sublimest truths, at least by a more solid 
conviction of a truth already known, com- 
municated in more glaring and luminous 
colours. 

C6 Consult whomsoever you will, the epi- 
cure, the voluptuary, the philosopher, the 
man of action and virtue ; inquire which 
is the superlative good, the transcendant 
blessing in their various pursuits? which 
the most luscious viand, the most enchant- 
ing beauty, the most delectable scientific 
acquisition, the most refined moral senti- 
ment? They will all, without exception, 
hesitate, advance their opinions, but retract, 
and refine upon them. But consult the vir- 
tuoso of natural beauties, who, t ransported 
with a glowing passion for the majestic 
scenery of Nature, has traversed all Europe, 
has contemplated the most romantic land- 
scapes of Helvetia and of the northern 
climes; ask him, which is the most sub- 
lime, magnificent, and comprehensive spec- 
tacle in the amphitheatre of the creation ? 
he will reply without hesitation— there is 
but one Sicily, one transcendant perspec- 
tive on the pinnacle of Etna-r- 



IT 



u Mcthinks I hear my friend exclaim : I 
comprehend you perfectly well. But whence 
comes it that this unrivalled prospect, this 
epitome of an universe, could not fascinate 
for a moment the enraptured spectator? 
could not fascinate him insomuch as to 
inspire a wish for perpetual, uninterrupted 
fruition ? What other spectacle, what peak 
of Tencriffe, what Ophyr*, what gigantic 
Atlas of Pernor Chili, can ever engender 
such a wish ? No, my friend, I freely con- 
less that none of them are competent to 
produce this effect ; and this is that solemn 
truth, which the spectacle of Etna lias en- 
graven in s-u'eh indelible characters upon 
my soul, that the happiness of human 
nature does not consist in actual posses- 
sion, but in a series of unwearied xertions, 
which ultimately conduct us towards the 
goal of our wishes. 

" But why then (it may be asked) does a 
mortal, when he is pressing forwards to- 

* Ophyr is a mountain of Sumatra, which, a-ccordin^ 
to the mensuration of Marsden, greatly surpasses the 
altitude of TenerifFe, insomuch, that, next to Mont 
Blanc, it is reputed the most lofty mountain of the oii 
world. 



IS 



ward some higher goal, fondly dream, that 
buying reached it, he will find repose; that 
no passions will goad him any longer, or 
snatch him from that cradle of tranquillity, 
in which his hopes already lull him to 
sleep? Because his fierce appetites, I 
reply, as long as they last, will not suffer 
any other object to engross iiis senses ; be- 
cause his wanton fancy paints the objects 
of his desire in more beautiful, luxuriant, 
and amiable colours, than they actually 
possess ; because reason herself plainly insi- 
nuates, that the perfection of happiness 
does not consist in that craving appetite, 
which stimulates us to activity, or in that 
painful, laborious research which accom- 
panies this activity; but in tranquil pos- 
session and actual fruition. But reason also 
inculcates another important lesson (if we 
would but hearken to her dictates), viz. 
that this consummation of bliss is not re- 
served in store for finite beings, who, 
although endowed with immortal appe- 
tites, nevertheless move in a circumscribed 
sphere of action, and with the paltry bucket 
of the moment, can only drain a few scanty 



19 



drops from the fountain of eternity, although 

the whole aggregate of its stores seems 
scarcely sufficient to quench the fierce crav- 
ings of their thirst. This consummation 
of bliss belongs to that Being alone, whose 
intuitive glance overlooks the whole chain 
of possible contingencies, and whose capa- 
cious hand grasps the whole sphere of real 
and substantial blessings ; whose immensity 
admits no extension, and whose infinitude 
requires no numerical addition. 

u But a circumscribed agent, cooped up 
within the narrow boundaries of mortality, 
how should he do otherwise than conjure 
up ail the phantoms and idle progeny of 
hope? than be for ever plodding, bewil- 
dered in a labyrinth of Herculean labours ? 
how should he do otherwise than, pressing 
forwards with fierce impatience, endeavour 
to overleap those barriers whereby he is 
circumvented ; and slighting the acquisi- 
tions he has already made, be for ever 
grasping after new conquests ? 

" These benevolent instincts of Nature 
ought never, for a moment, to be relaxed or 
suspended in their active functions. They 



20 



are the perennial spring of happiness, iit 
iike manner as pulsation is of animal life. 

cc That vacuity of soul, produced by 
the absence of hope and desire, is the most 
lamentable condition of humanity, more 
nearly allied to suicide than the most acute 
pains or poignant sorrows : for pain and 
sorrow have their peculiar antidote — an an- 
tidote pregnant with consolation — the pro- 
spect of a final deliverance from present 
evil. 

u When 1 glance at ray late excursion 
to Etna, I find these self-evident axioms of 
reason not only corroborated, but also elu- 
cidated in the most luminous manner, and 
considerably enlarged. 

cc Those days when I w r as occupied with 
scaling the mountain, were assuredly the 
most rugged and laborious period of my 
life. My weary, enfeebled limbs, and the 
lassitude of my body (of which I now feel 
more violent symptoms than ever), suffi- 
ciently attest this fact. But all these hard- 
ships were nothing, when compared with 
the sublime goal towards which they con- 
ducted, and how amply was I remunerated 



21 



by tliat welcome interval of repose, beyond 
the lava of Nicolosi, beneath the shades of 
the forest 5 and amidst the ravishing beau- 
ties of that godlike perspective I enjoyed 
from the summit of that sacred hill near 
our nocturnal retreat 

u These memorials will stand for ever 
engraven upon my soul: my memory will 
oftentimes retrace them in the bosom of 
that happy solitude, which, I trust, will 
crown my declining age, in order to com- 
pensate the absence of present fruition by 
the recollection of past pleasures* But 
when I analyze the voluptuous sensations 
of these fleeting- moments', in order to dis- 
cern the potent talisman which arrayed 
them in such seductive charms; did not 
the prying glance into futurity, rather than 
a momentary delirium 7 did not the steady 
progressive fiight'of my fancy, rather than, 
that delicious feast with which my senses 
were regaled, a wakeu those throbbing pal- 
pitations of delight, that vibrated in every 
fibre of my frame ? 

" Whilst I was reposing upon the flowery* 
carpet, hearkening to the soft piping of th& 



gg 

nightingale, respiring a current of air im- 
pregnated with fragrance, clearing away 
the sweat which distilled from ray brow, 
and assuaging my thirst with rosy nectar ; 
did not the prospect of having already sur- 
mounted so many hardships, of having ad- 
vanced so far on my journey, exhilarate 
my spirits even more than the nectar itself? 
Was not that clamorous outcry of 4 Pro- 
ceed! Proceed!' (whereupon we suddenly 
scrambled up in haste and mounted our 
mules) a clear argument, how far more 
powerful the lure of futurity is than the 
pleasures of the moment ? Moreover it de- 
monstrates, that hope had a larger share in 
our present gaiety than the gratification of 
our senses. 

" When I stood entranced in delirious 
ecstasy upon that god-like mount in the 
vicinity of cur cave, it was the spectacle 
above rather than that beneath me; it was 
the perspective from the pinnacle of Etna 
rather than the circumjacent plains, a pre- 
sentiment of what was to come rather than 
a knowledge of what I actually enjoyed, 
that dilated my breast and exhilarated my 



S3 



spirits with such palpitations of delight 
Had I simply feasted my external senses^ 
without soaring aloft on the pinions of 
fancy, would 1 then have contemplated 
the approach of nightfall with indifference., 
have disregarded the urgent necessity of a 
retreat, or left my comrades waiting with 
anxious solicitude far 'my return ? 

" But an argument still more decisive of 
that innate principle of activity implanted 
in the soul, whereby it is continually press- 
ing forward towards futurity, was that in- 
stant of dismay and consternation, when 
the mandate of the Cyclops, like some ma- 
gic spell, arrested us upon our mules, inso- 
much that the accents of the voice and the 
faculty of respiration were hushed, nay, 
even the chain of our ideas was broken and 
suspended. True it is, the mighty bugbear 
which chiefly appalled our senses was death, 
that extinction of all innate consciousness, 
that final suspension of all vital faculties 
and functions. But even after this con- 
sternation subsided, being rescued from the 
gripe of the king of terrors, when the ur- 
gent necessity of a hasty retreat to the foot 



of the mountain obtruded itself upon ous 
minds, did we then recover our self-com- 
placency and inward tranquillity ? No ; 
we regarded it as a scandalous disgrace, 
a complete miscarriage of the ultimate ob- 
ject of our journey. And yet, notwith- 
standing these murmurs of discontent, we 
had already enjoyed one of the most serene 
days of our lives. Our senses had revelled 
in a luscious banquet of natural beauties,. 
But all this was expunged from our me- 
mory ? and placed m the back ground ; onv 
ihoughis were wholly engrossed with what 
lay in prospect before us y which some ma- 
lignant daemon threatened to snatch from 
our grasp. But (methinks I hear my 
friend exclaim) did you not actually ascend 
[he pinnacle of Etna, and having sur- 
mounted all these barriers (being solely en- 
li laded by the regions of the atmosphere 
and by a pure current of ether), were all 
your bright prospects destroyed when your 
wishes were accomplished ? No; I grant, 
they accompanied us to the summit. 

" I will readily admit, that this final 
consummation of .wishes that inflamed our 



fxpectations, and were accomplished wit& 
'such- difficulty ; the arrival at a goal,. whose 
sublimity was commensurate with the most 
extravagant flights- of ambition ; those ten- 
der transports, when we first folded in. our 
embrace a Creation, of unspeakable beauty y 
whose indefinable glories bewilder the fancy 
and confound the senses of the astonished 
spectator ; this marvellous surprize,.w hereby 
the faculties of the soul, exalted beyond- 
measure,, are suspended and entranced in & 
momentary delirium : — I will admit that all 
this- is an approximation to the temple of 
the Godhead — a miniature perspective of 
infinite bliss — a kiss (if 1 may employ this 
allusion) which Time ravishes by stealth 
from Eternity. But 1 deny that our pas* 
sions are so easily extinguished, or the pro- 
gress of hope so speedily arrested. 

" The bright flame of hope was not en- 
kindled in our bosom by the prospect of 
hardships,, but by the anticipation of ac- 
tual fruition. But human joys are not ab- 
solute repose, inaction, or lethargy ; they 
are a constant, but gentle and impercep- 
tible transition from one gradation of de-> 



26 

lightful images to another. When the 
soul wakes from her first delirium, she be- 
gins to expatiate with an enraptured glance, 
over that Creation of beauties which sparkle 
on all sides in an endless maze; uncon- 
scious of fatigue, without suspecting that 
this delicious banquet can ever produce sa- 
tiety. But, too soon, alas ! the same images 
and impressions recur again and again, and 
this recurrence weakens their effect. The 
soul continues susceptible of fruition, but 
insensibly relapses into a needy, necessitous 
states the ordinary condition of humanity; 
and by this dissimilar process (since she 
now descends from affluence to poverty, 
whereas she rose before progressively from 
poverty to affluence), which forms such a 
remarkable contrast, her pleasures are di- 
minished, and her former desires are en.- 
kindled more and more. The object of her 
delight, indeed, acquires fresh attractions 
by an occasional respite from enjoyment ; 
but we are finally impressed with a mourn- 
ful conviction of the transitory charms 
even of a spectacle superlatively majestic. 
Our passion begins to subside— the succes- 



27 



sion of images disappears — Eternity bor~ 
rows the pinions of Time ? and soars beyond 
our ken, 

u My own sentimental impressions upon 
Mount Etna, are also interwoven with this 
general picture of those voluptuous sensa-> 
tions incident to humanity. How preg- 
nant with delight, with rapture and exalta- 
tion of soul, were our; first impressions, 
when we glanced downwards upon that 
boundless horizon which encompassed us 
around ! ! How powerfully did we not feel 
our minds withdraw n from sublunary things, 
and irresistibly attracted, as if by a mag- 
netic impulse, towards the Deity ! The 
vast superficies of the ocean, unfurled be- 
fore our view ; the picturesque domains of 
Calabria, rising over against us ; the vol- 
canoes of the Lipari disgorging spiral flames 
and volumes of smoke ; the whole kingdom, 
with all its towns, valleys, harbours and 
mountains, prostrate at our feet ! is it pos- 
sible, my friend, that the soul of a mortal 
could be more ravished, dilated or exalted, 
by any other spectacle? If, conformably 
to the hypothesis of ancient sages ? the most 



23 



appropriate places that can be consecrated 
to the worship of an omnipresent and omni- 
potent Deity, be not a narrow enclosure of 
stone walls r but a lofty commanding emi- 
nence with a boundless perspective; then, 
undoubtedly, when exalted upon the pin- 
nacle of Etna, we were standing within 
the most majestic temple of the habitable 
globe ! and that sacred awe which vibrated 
in every fibre of our frame, appeared to 
sanction this solemn truth. We inter- 
changed our sentiments of rapture and of 
amazement, in all those varied tones and 
modulations which language can convey, 
until the reiterated and sonorous peals of 
thunder issuing from the Mount, like an 
imperious mandate, enjoined us, as it were, 
to take a survey of that crater, which, for 
more than two milleniums, has been the 
focus of terror and conflagration. 

" On our return from this spectacle, we 
found the god-like perspective of Etna 
greatly .enhanced : the sun having now as- 
cended a higher altitude, illumined every 
object with a brighter stream of light, and 
we inspected, with the naked eye, as also 



29 



jvitli optical glasses, fnr more distinctly, 
the magnificent scenery of the creation . But 
one potent charm, without which, all other 
beauties are divested of their attractions, 
the charm of novelty, was wanting ; every 
object, however grand and magnificent, 
no longer excited the same impressions 
as before. Now it was, that we first began 
to remark the asperity of the atmosphere 
in this elevation above the superficies of 
the ocean : we now called to mind the 
mild temperature of the woody region, al- 
though its outskirts wore a wintry aspect ; 
we recollected those delicious moments of 
repose we had enjoyed upon a carpet of 
flowers and blossoms — And now you may 
easily divine what followed — we cast many 
a longing, lingering look behind, in order 
to engrave upon the tablets of our memory 
this majestic image which we were never to 
contemplate again ; but presently the seve- 
rity of the frost compelled us to make the 
first retrograde motion ; and no sooner had 
we done this, than the glossy, slippery 
surface of the ground wholly engrossed our 



so 

attention, and made us advance with cau* 
iious steps. 

" Had I loitered here, until absolute sa- 
tiety had destroyed the zest of pleasure ; 
liad I suffered myself to be beguiled by the 
monstrous conceit of making this my chosen 
retreat, or of ending my days in airy con- 
temptations, and in gazing at these super- 
lative beauties ; 1 verily believe that this 
idle dream would have congealed my ani- 
mal spirits much sooner than the vast 
plains of ice with which 1 was encom- 
passed. 

If it be true, that the sage of Agrigen- 
turn resided upon the pinnacle of Etna ; if 
lie was so circumstanced as to preclude all 
possibility of a return to his fellow-citi- 
zens ; then, methinks I can assign a more 
satisfactory cause for that suicide he is 
said to have perpetrated, than a vain am- 
bition for divine honours. He was weary 
of the dull, monotonous spectacle, of this 
otherwise grand and majestic scenery, and 
chose rather to plunge headlong into the 
yawning gulph, than any longer support a 



31 



lingering existence, which was become 
pa infill and cumbersome. 

u Met h inks I hear you exclaim : 6 Is this 
the final result of your journey? this, the 
recompense for so many fatigues, hard- 
ships, and dangers V — Yes, my friend — * 
bating a few bright images which my 
fancy has gleaned from the storehouse of 
Nature ; bating some scientific acquisitions 
in the department of natural philosophy ; 
this is the balance, the neat produce of my 
gains. I have learnt that happiness is a 
coy mistress, who artfully dissembling her 
good-will, shrinks back from the warm 
transports of our close embrace., and if we 
eagerly strive to arrest her flight, makes 
us desist by an indignant glance, or by 
affected unkindness — but, when removed to 
a distance beyond our grasp, presently re- 
assumes her wonted smiles of sweet com- 
placency. Yet, methinks I ought to dis- 
miss this gay tone of levity and jocularity, 
now that I am about to conclude a narra- 
tive, whence we may derive the gravest 
lessons, and truths of infinite importance 
for the conduct of our lives* 



S2 

cc I shall now only glance at two of fhese 
Important truths, because they appear to 
be tlie natural and immediate result of the 
foregoing remarks. 

" Tkefirst is, that in order to -arrive at 
the perfection of human happiness, we 
must turn our eyes towards an eminence as 
our ultimate goal, where the repose of our 
animal spirits is accompanied with more 
refined and voluptuous sensations; where 
we have a more distinct and comprehen- 
sive perspective of that pilgrimage we have 
already performed ; whereby a fierce desire 
to achieve still greater exploits is enkindled 
in our bosom, our resolution of supporting 
hardships with cheerful resignation being 
confirmed; — an eminence which soars fa 
an elevation beyond our ken, or (to pursue 
my metaphor) whose pinnacle stretches be- 
yond the grave, into the regions of eter- 
nity. 

" Tlie ,$agc, who is arrived at a know- 
ledge of this truth, cannot therefore pro- 
pose to himself as an ultimate goal, the 
pleasure* of sense or the gratification of his 
voluptuous appetites; he can never look 



3% 

for happiness in jogging onward, and skip- 
ping from one mole-hill to the other, with 
a sort of plodding perseverance; where 
there is nothing but a tedious recurrence of 
one tame, unvaried perspective ; where the 
flame of desire languishes and expires; 
where the spirits, instead of acquiring fresh 
supplies of elastic vigour or of animal heat, 
droop, evaporate, and are finally con* 
sumed ; where the inward consciousness of 
existence, instead of being exalted and in- 
vigorated, becomes more vague, obscure and 
inert, and our bright prospects are totally 
destroyed. Consequently, by this second 
truth, all those objects are excluded as ul- 
timate goals of ambition, which, although- 
not expressly recommended, were however 
regarded as admissible by the fore^oin^ 
position; and now our choice is simply 
confined to one individual object, if we 
aspire to happiness. Now, whether we 
judge it convenient to transfer that ultimate 
goal of ambition (wherein all our wishes 
and desires concentrate) to extraneous ob- 
jects, or to energies residing within our 
soul, but which require external aid and 



3ft 



foreign auxiliaries ; in both cases, aban- 
don ourselves to a capricious destiny, and 
this treacherous daemon may practise all 
his wily pranks, and make a cruel sport 
of our fortunes. But if we transfer it solely 
to the energies of our will 3 regarding the 
final perfection and amelioration of the no- 
blest faculty of our nature as the ultimate 
ftcope of ambition ; then we have uol only 
the prospect of a boundless goal, which 
no one has hitherto reached, being abso- 
lutely unattainable (for where did ever that 
saire or virtuous roan exist, an ho could not 
be surpassed in wisdom or virtue by his fel- 
low-mortals ?) but we are likewise removed 
beyond the reach of a capricious destiny : 
all its mischievous pranks only serve to ac- 
celerate our progress towards this goal, to 
make us more wary and circumspect in the 
conduct of our lives, and to place our 
magnanimity in the fairest and most con- 
spicuous light. They only serve to conso- 
lidate our happiness, by transferring it to 
the inmost recesses of our soul, which is 
the only seat of consummate fruition. We 
?xe instructed by an inward monitor and 1 



powerful instinct, that the vital principle 
of our nature is soared in the energies of 
our will, and not in the faculty of reason. 
Hence it is, that when Ave contemplate 
by intuition our intellectual perfections, 
this contemplation (if it be not merely 
cold self-complacency, but cordial rapture 
and enthusiasm), is necessarily connected 
with a recollection of the toils and hard- 
ships we have surmounted, and of that 
painful penance we have voluntarily un- 
dergone in our progress to wards this state 
of intellectual perfection. 

" Were we not simply en& wed with 
organs and faculties susceptible of culture, 
and of progressive improvement ; were 
we ushered into cxistencr, like the subor- 
dinate tribes of artificial insects, armed 
cap-a-pie with unerring instincts, our in- 
tellectual eve would not feel stronger emo- 
tions of self-complacency, in contemplating 
the energies of (he soul, than what are or- 
dinarily excited by ffasing at the elegant 
contour of a beautiful countenance, or at 
he delicate symmetry of well-proportioned 
imbs. 



" Now, according to this self-same law, 
the purest source of our joys must be the 
perfection and amelioration of our will, or 
in other words, Virtue herself.— 

" But I recollect betimes, that I am writ- 
ing to a man, somewhat addicted to the max- 
ims of modern epicureans, who will scarcely 
relish meditations which savour too much 
of the pure doctrines of stoical philosophy. 
Accept, therefore, dear sir, an apology 
which such a dispassionate stoic candidly 
offers to an epicurean of such liberal and 
enlarged principles as yourself, and allow 
me to conclude with sentiments of affection 
and esteem." 



37 



ENRAPTURED TRANCE 

OF 

LAS CAS AS, 

Disclosing the radical sources of a serene, 
unclouded conscience *. 



Las Casas, whose name will stand for 
ever enrolled upon (lie catalogue of benevo- 
lent philanthropists, and will shine with a 
brighter lustre when opposed to that ruth- 
less band of ruffians, branded w T ith eternal 
infamy, who, daring the short space of 
fifteen vears, massacred u p YY a i ( Is of a mil- 
lion innocent victims, by the agonies of the 
rack, by the sword of the executioner, and 
by the hardships of servitude : — this elo- 



* I beg leave to refer the English reader, for a more 
copious detail of the meritorious labours of tins bene- 
volent philanthropist, to Dr. Robertson's History of 
America. — T. 

D 3 



38 



quent advocate, I say, this zealous and 
indefatigable champion of the Indians, was 
visited by a mortal distemper at the ad- 
vanced age of ninety years, and lay stretched 
upon his couch. Although he had long 
expected with holy fervour the recompense 
.of Heaven, yet now that he stood on the 
brink of eternity, he began to pause, and 
felt a secret misgiving. It was like unto 
those tender alarms, which heave the bosom 
of a lovely virgin, who, at the very in- 
stant when her happiness is on the eve of 
being consummated, and all her fond de- 
sires accomplished, trembles at the change 
of her condition. 

He had formerly stood unabashed in the 
presence of monarchs, and undismayed be- 
fore the tribunals of the earth : but now he 
was arraigned at the bar of eternal jus* 
tice, and summoned to appear before a 
Judge, whose sanctity inspired him with 
terror. 

The intrepid countenance of conscious 
integrity, and the bashful eye of guilt, are 
alike smitten and dazzled by the meridian 

splendours of the suti. 



39 



Beside him sat reclined a worthy asso- 
ciate of the same brotherhood, stricken in 
years like himself — his approved and an- 
cient friend. A similitude of manners and 
pursuits made his soul cling to Las Casas 
with fond attachment ; a conscious sense 
of inferior genius, inspired him with, 
sentiments of admiration and reverence. 
Touched with heartfelt compunction, he 
beheld his friend (whom he never forsook 
for a moment) wasting by a gradual and 
insensible decay, and sought to administer 
consolation, being desirous to buoy up his 
own dejected spirits. But the veteran, 
"wholly absorbed in the sacred visions of 
eternity, requested him to withdraw, and 
to indulge him in silent conference with 
his awful Judge. 

Las Casas lay ruminating awhile, anil 
took a retrospective survey of his former 
life. Wheresoever lie turned his regards, 
he beheld a chequered scene, fraught with 
errors and misconduct ; he beheld them in 
their most glaring colours and in their re- 
motest consequences, undulating before his 
d 4 



40 



view like the waves of the ocean % be looked 
askance at his meritorious actions, and 
they appeared to him paltry, imperfect, 
and unavailing, like unto a brook in a 
sandy desart, whose watery stores presently 
evaporate without leaving any traces of ve- 
getation, any flowers or blossoms. Abashed, 
confounded, he fell prostrate before his 
God, and uttered with a stammering ac- 
cent, this pious ejaculation: u Sit not in 
judgment upon my soul ! Let me find grace 
in thy presence ! Father of human-kind !' v 

The languid organs of the dying sage 
were too feeble, long to support this violent 
conflict of his soul : his efforts to prolong 
his vigils were unavailing, and his eye-lids 
were presently sealed in slumbers. 

He soared on the pinions of fancy beyond 
* he starry expanse, traversed on sable clouds 
the fields of ether, and descried at a dis- 
tance an opaque gloom, shrouded in a ma- 
jestic veil, but irradiated at intervals by 
sudden flashes and corruscations emanating 
from the throne of the Godhead ; being 
encompassed with legions of spirits, undu- 



41 



lating with a continual ebb and flow fronf 
circumjacent worlds. 

Whilst he was gazing at this magnificent 
spectacle, his soul being entranced in ex- 
static devotion, he suddenly espied an An- 
gel, with the dignified aspect of a judge ? 
standing over against him ; grasping a 
scroll with his left hand, which he unra- 
velled with his right. 

A cadaverous paleness overspread the 
countenance of the hoary sage ; he stood 
quaking and petrified with horror, as a cri- 
minal when conducted to the place of 
judgment, where he must expiate his crimes, 
with his blood. 

Now the immortal challenged him by 
name, and prefaced his speech, by recapi- 
tulaiing all those sublime energies implanted 
in his soul ; all those mild and benevolent 
affections, the germs of which were mingled 
with the temperature of his blood ; and 
lastly, all those powerful incentives (the 
faithful helpmates of his virtue) which were 
interwoven with his peculiar station in life : 
insomuch, that he began to suspect his 
whole moral excellence originated from the 



42 



Deity, whereas nothing was left for his own 
share, but a dark, dreary vista of errors 
and misconduct. 

When the Angel began to rehearse the 
story of his life, he already anticipated in 
idea the catalogue of his juvenile transgres- 
sions ; but no memorials were to be found. 
His first tear of penitence had expunged 
and obliterated tlie whole. 

This tear alone stood upon record ; as 
also, each pious vow of reformation, each 
sincere token of contrition for renewed mis- 
conduct; each placid triumph of conscious 
virtue, in the performance of moral duties ; 
every penance voluntarily imposed by an 
austere and abstemious virtue ; and each 
glorious victory over carnal appetites, those 
mortal enemies to God. 

A ray of hope began to illumine the dis* 
consolate breast of the trembling delin- 
quent. For although his transgressions 
were more numerous than the sands on the 
sea shore, there was also a copious harvest 
of good and worthy deeds : as he advanced 
in years, the bulk of his errors was sensibly 
diminished, and his moral excellence im* 



43 



proved ; experience and meditation con* 
firmed the energies of his soul ; the per- 
formance of moral duties fortified his habits 
of virtue. 

But presently the Angel launched out 
into more impassioned strains, and his ac* 
cents began to flow apace, like a raging 
torrent : for now the stripling was arrived 
at the age of- manhood, and assumed the 
sacred character of an avenger of oppressed 
humanity, in those isles, heretofore the 
blissful seats of innocence, but now the en- 
sanguined theatre of crimes and avarice. 
The Angel expatiated upon the hardships 
which the hero encountered, upon the he- 
roic exploits he achieved ; how he regarded 
the wrongs of suffering innocence as per- 
sonal injuries, a pure flame of active bene- 
volence being enkindled in his bosom, 
which still raged with unabating ardour in 
the season of old age and decrepitude : with 
what noble assurance he bade defiance to the 
malignity of the great, and fulminated his 
curses against that insatiable thirst of gold 
panting after human gore ; as also, against 
that spiritual arrogance which beheld the 



44 



scene of carnage with a ghastly smile ; and 
that nefarions policy, which neglected 
to curb this torrent of iniquity : how, 
braving the fury of the tempest, and of a 
perilous navigation, he adventured across 
the bosom of the deep, hastening to and 
fro, to waft the sighs of injured innocence to 
the footstool of royalty, and to administer 
consolation to his clients : with what un- 
daunted resolution lie confronted a proud 
conqueror, the mighty sovereign of two 
worlds, overwhelming him with consterna- 
tion, by disclosing his long accumulated 
arrear of guilt, insomuch that he was fain 
to suppose himself arraigned at the bar of 
eternal justice, with the devouring flames 
of hell curling and hissing about his head : 
how, when all his fairest hopes were blasted, 
he threw himself, in an agony, upon the 
ground, his tears being wafted heaven- 
wards; then, summoning to his aid all his 
resolution, he became again collected in his 
might, and boldly projected new gigantic 
schemes of enterprising humanity; and every 
ray of light which illumined the minds of his 
devoted clients, also made his bosom heave 



45 



with palpitations of delight — moreover (af<* 
ter all these bright prospects suffered a to- 
tal eclipse), how he voluntarily renounced 
the comforts of society, and withdrew to the 
shades of retirement, regarding his terres- 
trial abode as a dungeon, and panting with 
pious fervour for his final emancipation, 
and for the crown of immortality. — All 
these exploits and sufferings were recorded 
before God in all their native puriiy, beauty, 
and excellence. 

Whilst the Angel was reciting this narra- 
tive, his countenance was suffused with a 
deeper glow of fire ; he respired more freely 
and quicker ; his glance became more en- 
raptured, and a flood of glory encompassed 
his person : for an enthusiasm in the cause 
of truth and justice, were it even not sig- 
nalized by activity, but barely expressed 
in passive sighs and complaints, pleads 
with irresistible force and eloquence, in the 
forum of Eternal Justice. 

But the hoary sage stood musing, in a 
pensive disconsolate attitude, with his eyes 
immoveably fixed upon the cloud ; for his 
soul was harrowed up with the recollection 



46 



of one fatal scheme, when, in an evil hour, 
meditating the rescue of one people, he 
forged the chains of servitude for another* 
His intellectual eye took a wide excursive 
range on the shores of the Gambia, and of 
the Senegal, and hovered over the remotest 
provinces of that quarter of the globe, 
where barbarous and eternal wars surren- 
dered to the merciless gripe of European 
savages, myriads of victims bound in ada- 
mantine chains. At length, after a bright 
catalogue of worthy exploits, this foul mis- 
deed was brought to light, interwoven witli 
a tissue of hideous consequences, and 
branded with infamy, as if it just issued 
hissing hot from the alembic of hell, more 
sanguinary and lamentable than the discon- 
solate sage had ever dreamt in the visions 
of the night. All the accumulated enor- 
mities of guilt, and the lamentations of in- 
nocence, were recorded before God : Misery 
appeared, Proteus-like, in all her various 
forms, unutterable, indefinable, in the mo- 
ther-country, on th& ocean, in the isles : 
the expiring energies of Nature ; their flesh 
lacerated with whips and scourges, instead 



47 



of being refreshed with repose; the groans 
and agonies of expiring victims ; the dread- 
ful calm and resignation of despair. 

Las Casas stood aghast, a monument of 
grief, and petrified with horror. He no 
longer thought of the eternal Fountain of 
Sanctity and J ustice, whose searching eye 
no obscurity can elude, no stream of mant- 
ling light can dazzle ; touched with the 
most heartfelt compunction, he was solely 
engrossed with contemplating the unspeak- 
able woe of so many thousands of his fel- 
low-mortals. 

When the Angel beheld how the vultures 
of remorse preyed upon his soul, insomuch 
that he would gladly have resigned the in- 
valuable jewel of immortality, could he 
have redeemed his guilt at this price, then 
a tear of sympathy and benevolence glis- 
tened in his eye. 

But a voice issuing from the Sanctuary, 
mild and benignant, like unto the voice of 
an affectionate parent, promulgated this 
decree : 

' 6 Let the scroll be rent in twain V* 



48 

And the Angel rent the scroll, and con* 
signed the fragments to oblivion. 

" All thy foibles," said he, " are obli- 
terated before God, and thy name stands 
recorded in characters of light ! Were his 
heavy displeasure to light upon transgres- 
sions like thine, then none of thy brethren 
would be righteous in his presence, and his 
heavenly mansion would be desolate and 
unpeopled. He has humbled souls into 
dust, that they might be conducted to the 
temple of truth through the mazes of error ; 
that they might be led by transgressions to 
virtue, and by sufferings to happiness." 

u Expunge, I conjure thee," said Las 
Casas with a profound sigh (having now 
recovered his faculty of speech by a tor- 
rent of tears), " expunge, if thou canst, 
the recollection of this foul misdeed : else 
I shall for ever carry my condemnation in 
my own bosom. Even as thou hast rent 
this scroll, in like manner (ear from 
the tablets of my memory, the memorials 
thereof, whereupon they stand engraven in 
indelible characters : otherwise, in the pre- 



benoe of God, I shall deplore the absence 
of happiness, and be devoid of a serene con- 
science in the bosom of celestial joys." 

u Mortal !" cried the Angel, " does a 
serene conscience reside elsewhere than in 
thy own bosom ? Does this fair flower of 
humanity disclose its blossoms unto a finite 
being (who cannot be blameless or imma- 
culate, like God) in any other shape what- 
ever, than in a conscious application of 
his talents to the cause of virtue ; in an 
affectionate sympathy for the meanest of 
his brethren, or in an innate consciousness 
of the integrity of his soul, by lamenting 
his errors and imperfections ?" 

66 Alas !" rejoined Las Casas, u but how 
long and unspeakable is this arrear of hu- 
man misery, accumulated throughout a 
succession of ages!" 

" All this," resumed the Angel, u will 
be transmuted into pure sterling bliss, in 
the comprehensive scheme and mundane 
system of thy Creator. Thou hast ac- 
knowledged thy own imbecility : now re- 
cognize thy Maker, in the plenitude of his 
glory V f 



50 



. No sooner did the Angel give a signal, 
than the cloud was forcibly rent asunder 
from the pediment of the heavens; and 
they gently descended hand in hand, into 
■the spacious fields of Creation. The sage 
beheld, underneath, the terrestrial planet 
revolving around its axis; his conductor 
pointed out to him a ridge of dreary, in- 
hospitable mountains, convulsed with the 
explosions of jarring elements, and assailed 
by the furious blasts of -raging tornadoes.: 
fountains and rivers gushed forth from their 
summits, and their banks were peopled 
with a jocund race of mortals : the copious 
stores of heaven descended from the com- 
bustion of jarring elements, and crowned 
the field and forest with a greener verdures 
where the whirlwind had raged with de- 
structive fury, the breast began to respire 
a purer current of air; for the baneful 
wings of pestilence, hovering over the fogs 
of the atmosphere, being relaxed, it re- 
coiled into the abyss. 

Thus did the Angel conduct his asto- 
nished comrade through all the shadowy 
forms of apparent evil, from the visible to 



51 



the invisible world, inspiring him witn 
sublimer raptures, whilst he initiated his 
pupil in those invaluable secrets of Nature, 
whose hieroglyphical characters have never 
been tlecyphered by human ken : how the 
everlasting Sire pursues his victorious march 
over the wreck and jarring elements of 
matter, insomuch that no incoherence, no 
vacuity remains in the vast circumference 
of the Creation, from the first to the last 
planetary orb : how, in the moral world, 
sufferings quicken the latent springs of ac- 
tivity, cherish and foster all the noble and 
more refined feelings of humanity ^—-more- 
over, how a forlorn captive becomes sus- 
ceptible of impressions, when transported 
to foreign climes ! — impressions of inesti- 
mable and eternal value, which contain 
the germs of a treasury of experimental 
knowledge, in like manner as an exuberant 
harvest lies enclosed within the foldings of 
a seminal grain, or a forest in the embryo 
of a sprig : how, in process of time, the 
fair progeny of the virtues are engrafted 
upon his mind, and flourish in his afflicted, 
disconsolate soul : how love and charity. 
4% 



52 



the fairest wreath- of morality, and the per- 
fection of human nature, crowns this bright 
assemblage of the virtues, insomuch that 
his bosom is actuated with benevolent sen* 
fiments even for his implacable- foe; nay, 
how the wanton oppressor of innocence 
himself, however paralytic and depraved 
the moral energies of his soul may be, is 
redeemed from absolute destruction, so that 
all these judgments were only salvation 
procrastinated, only a devious path, beset 
with shaggy thorns, winding in a serpen- 
tine maze, but ultimately conducting hea- 
venwards : — how misery is the offspring 
of sin, repentance is engendered by mi- 
scry, virtue is the daughter of repentance ; 
whence arises that sunshine of the soul, a 
serene, unclouded conscience, whereby vir- 
tue herself is ennobled : finally, how all 
discordant sounds are transmuted into ra- 
vishing tones of harmony, and the mourn- 
ful strains of an Adagio into the high flown 
raptures of an Allegro. 

The hoary sage stood listening with pro- 
found reverence to the discourse of the An- 
gel, being seized ever and anon with a sud- 



53 



clen tremor, that vibrated to the inmost 
fibre of his frame; and overawed by a pre- 
sentiment of the divine presence, he became 
gradually initiated in the mysteries of be- 
nevolence. And now the film forsook his 
eyes ? and dropt in thick scales upon the 
ground — the mists of ignorance and all her 
idle brood were dissipated ; the whole Cre- 
ation was illumined with a sudden blaze of 
light; it was a jocund day, ushered in by 
transports of ecstasy. But still secret pangs 
of compunction wrung him to the soul ; 
his spirits were thrown into a violent agita- 
tion, and his cheeks were once more be- 
dewed with a torrent of tears. 

u O thou !" he exclaimed (dropping his 
knee upon the tremulous cloud, which 
shrunk beneath the pressure) — " O inscru- 
table Being! w hom I have longed to behold 
face to face, from my infancy, and who 
hast now deigned to reveal thyself unto 
me, in all thy native majesty, full of 
mercy, of benignity and love ; O my father 
and judge; everlasting sire of the various 
modes of being and of this mundane sys- 
tem ! who has disclosed to my enraptured 
e 3 



54 



gaze a bounteous harvest of salvation, 
where my folly scattered abroad the seeds 
of destruction : hast dispelled the cloud of 
my sorrows, and impressed me with a solid 
conviction, that happiness is only to be found 
in thee, and that a glimpse of thy glories 
is the consummation of bliss ; w ho hast re- 
munerated my unavailing wishes, my fee- 
ble aspirations after good works with such 
transports of rapture ; hast transmuted the 
polluted stream of error into a pure foun- 
tain of joys — Inscrutable Being ! encom- 
passed with a flood of glory and light, 
whose name I (who am but a particle of 
dust) have endeavoured to glorify —But 
my soul is oppressed, and can no longer 
articulate its sensations!" 

Even so it was; his faultering tongue 
refused to perform its office ; the functions 
of his soul were suspended. 

But tlie Angel inclining towards him, 
caught him in his arms, and with looks of 
unspeakable complacency, clasping him in 
his fraternal embrace, saluted him with the 
cordial appellation of" Brother!" 

Hereupon Las Casas awoke. No sooner 



55 



did lie glance upwards, than he espied his 
sublunary Angel, gently advancing to- 
wards his bedside in order to witness the 
I last struggle of expiring Nature. He was 
going to speak, was going to communicate 
• to his brother the devout ecstasy that per- 
vaded his soul, and thereby perform the 
last ritual of friendship : but his eyes began 
to break apace ; he instantly recoiled, and 
his limbs remained motionless, being con* 
gealed by the icy hand of death. 

Struck with an awful tremor, his brother 
stood gazing at the inanimate corpse. — At 
length, overcome by the violence of his 
grief, he embraced the lifeless body, and 
wept aloud. His uplifted eyes beaming 
with devotion, and his hands folded toge- 
ther, appeared to petition Heaven j.. that he 
also might die the death of the righteous.. 
For the demise of this worthy personage 
I was like unto the sweet repose of an infant 
slumbering in the arms of its mother, and 
-serene complacency of soul, derived from 
Ism experimental knowledge of himself and 
Df his God, dawned upon his countenance 
miidst the agonies of death, 
e 4 



THE GODDESSES. 

AN ALLEGORY ■ 



The Goddesses of "Wisdom and of Love 
disquieted the dome of Olympus with ever- 
lasting feuds. They M ere both ambitious to 
extend their empire over our terrestrial pla- 
net ; but whenever any mortal offered up his 
oblations at the shrine of t he one,, he seldom 
or ever frequented the altars of the other, 
and it was not until he grew weary of the 
service of Venus, that he courted the smiles 
of Minerva. Sometimes indeed (but this 
occurred seldom), a solitary mortal would 
pay his court to them both, in an equal 
and impartial manner ; and such a one was 
ever accounted the wisest, in the private 
judgment of Minerva. Each of the God- 
desses fondly indulged a hope of acquiring 
a complete ascendancy over him, and in 
order to accomplish this desirable end, 



m 



they showered down their choicest gifts and 
blessings upon his head. 

The jealousy of their godships, how* 
ever, seldom proceeded to an open rup- 
ture. They deprecated the wrath of the 
omnipotent Sire of the Gods, who always 
knit his awful brow into a formidable 
frown, whenever he beheld their alterca- 
tion. On the one hand, Minerva was the 
offspring of his prolific brain, and parental 
tenderness is generally biassed towards such 
children ; on the other, he was also under 
the greatest obligations to Venus. She had 
procured him many a blissful hour of amo- 
rous dalliance, when he dismissed the in- 
signia of majesty, and made himself ample 
amends for the irksome cares of govern- 
ment, in like manner as several of our Gods 
of mortal extraction are wont to do. And, 
forsooth, what more illustrious model could 
they propose to themselves for imitation, 
than the example of Jupiter ? 

In general, therefore, their animosity 
was expressed by glances, by sarcasms and 
sly allusions : in short, by all that desul- 
tory kind of warfare, whereby the fair sex 



58 



generally make each other smart more se- 
verely, than what we men are wont to do 
by the deadly gashes we inflict in our ruder 
combats. In these mock skirmishes the 
Cyprian Goddess commonly had the ad- 
vantage. Minerva was too serious, and 
would oftentimes dismiss her gay and jo- 
cular tone, in order to assume the grave 
and magisterial airs of philosophical ar- 
gumentation. Now, it frequently hap- 
pened, whilst she was chopping logic, 
that Apollo would yawn so dreadfully as 
to discompose the laurel wreath which en- 
circled his temples, and make it rustle ; 
whilst Bacchus, reclining on one of the co- 
loihules of the Celestial hall, with his belly 
projecting, and his arms dangling beside 
him, would make the whole council-cham- 
ber reverberate with the sonorous blasts of 
his nostrils; nay, even the Bird of Jove, 
perehed on the tip of (he divine sceptre, 
Would himself begin to tuxl, in that de- 
lectable and picturesque attitude wWbb 
Pindar describes :— on such-like occasions, 
J say, the wanton Venus would often enter 
into amorous dalliance with tier little brat, 



59 

©r throwing her snowy arms around the 
neck of her smutty consort, would so cajole 
him, whisper such a tender tale of love into 
his ear r imprint such ambrosial kisses upon 
his lips, that their drowsiness suddenly for- 
sook them, and none of their Godships any 
longer devoured the manna of wisdom that 
trickled from the lips of Minerva, They 
were oftentimes ready to expire with laugh- 
ing at the expence of her unsuspecting 
yokefellow, who took all her caresses in 
good part, and could scarcely contain 
himself for joy and wantonness. Scenes of 
this sort never failed to afflict Minerva in 
the most sensible manner, and she would 
frequently have launched out into the most 
bitter invectives, had she not recollected 
herself betimes, and called to mind that 
she was the Goddess of Wisdom. 

Jupiter would often gently expostulate 
with her after the following manner : 
44 Loving daughter, I think it were ad- 
visable to keep on friendly terms with the 
Cyprian Goddess." Minerva herself was 1 
convinced of the justice of this remark, 
but she had been injured in the most sen- 



60 

sibte part, and these injuries were multi- 
plied daily. Jealousy rankled in her bosom, 
and became incurable. The whole universe 
crowded in tumultuous throngs to the altars 
of Venus ; the choicest and fairest fruits 
were consecrated to (his Goddess: such 
only, as had expended their whole patri- 
mony, and consequently could no longer 
expect the favours of Venus, courted the 
benevolence of Minerva. In this manner 
did it come to pass, that the amiable 
daughter of Jupiter was compelled to rest 
satisfied with the offals and drippings of 
her rival. 

Troops of blooming youths and of beau- 
teous damsels were seen thronging around 
the altars of the former ; her festivals were 
crowned with mirth and jocund hilarity: 
none approached the sanctuary of Minerva, 
save only a few solitary groups of super- 
annuated invalids and of decayed matrons, 
who came limping on their crutches, bring- 
ing along with them incense instead of vic- 
tims, and not promising fair to be service- 
able to her cause. It rarely happened that 
a youth, mu:!) k 4 s^ that z damsel, resorted 



61 



liither. If any man or stripling chanced 
to stray from the bowers of Love into those 
of Wisdom, he commonly advanced with 
tardy and reluctant steps, casting a wistful 
and lingering look behind him. He would 
often return, after he had already performed 
half his journey. If the Cyprian God- 
dess only favoured him with one gracious 
smile or simper, he would instantly forget 
the cause of his disgust, and become a more 
ardent votary than ever. Nay, even amongst 
the most superannuated invalids, there were 
few who w^re candid or sincere followers 
of Minerva. Most of them courted her 
benevolence, merely in order to possess 
something, after having lost that which 
they loved in preference to all other earthly 
blessings. 

Once upon a time, during the pale glim- 
merings of the moon, when Minerva de- 
scended from the azure vault on a visit to 
one of her special favourites, in order to 
ravish his soul with her secret influences, 
and to purge his intellectual vision for the 
contemplation of moral beauty; she found 
her station already pre-occupied by the 



61? 



Goddess of Love, and the hoary sage en- 
gaged in the more pleasing and delectable 
task of inspecting a corporeal beauty. In- 
dignant at this new triumph of her adver- 
sary, she could not calmly brood over her 
mortification in silence. From that very 
instant she constantly persecuted Venus 
with bitter sarcasms, and converted trivial 
occurrences into the most fierce and acri- 
monious debates. 

Jupiter, solicitous to preserve the train 
quillitjr of Olympus, darted a glance preg- 
nant with ire upon Minerva, and sought 
to intimidate her by contracting his brow 
into a formidable frown ; but all was to no 
purpose. At length, with an indignant tone 
of voice, he suffered this observation to 
escape him, which he thought might be 
an useful hint to the Goddess of Wisdom ; 
u that such bickerings were unworthy of a 
Divinity." 

u O Jupker^' cried Minerva (diverting 
the conversation into another channel), 
" instruct me, I beseech thee, what is the 
essence of a Divinity. 1 have been long 
perplexed in my conceptions cf this sub- 



63 



ject. There are some, whose temples as« 
cend to the skies, whose altars blaze inces- 
santly from one monsoon to the other, whose 
statues are worshipped by the nations of 
the earth, and who are nevertheless desti- 
tute of an essential characteristic of the 
Godhead." 

A sidelong and significant glance towards 
the Goddess of Love, obliged the latter to 
take a share in the conversation. 

" An essential characteristic of the God- 
head !" : rejoined Venus : " I never discussed 
such grave subjects, Madam. Pray what 
may that be ?" 

u How f ' resumed Minerva, " do you 
ask what may that be? When a mortal 
inquires ; Who am I ? he then vindicates 
1m pre-eminence above the reptile race. 
But when a Goddess starts such questions 5 
she sinks to the low level of humanity. It 
is benevolence : it is a solicitude for the 
welfare of those mortals who are placed 
under our government. " 

" But pray," returned Venus, u may I 
ask, who that Divinity is 3 destitute of this 
characteristic ?" 



64 

u Most undoubtedly," replied Minerva* 
" An impertinent question merits a rebuke. 
Yourself are that personage, Madam." 

"How-! myself?" cried Venus, with a 
simper. Hereupon she cast her eyes around 
the whole assembly with an air of conscious 
innocence. 

u Who but yourself, Madam -?" resumed 
Minerva. u When the spacious dome of 
Olympus reverberates with the wailings of 
despair, which drown the acclamations of 
joy, and disturb Jupiter himself in the pe- 
netralia of his palace ; pray who is the 
cause of all this but yourself? It is the 
mournful voice of those victims whom you 
have made unhappy." 

" How! Madam," cried Venus, "whence 
do you imagine these amorous ditties of 
dying swains proceed ? Believe me, the 
melancholy strains of an Adagio convey 
oftentimes more exquisite and voluptuous 
sensations, than the high flown raptures of 
an Allegro. Mighty pretty ! I should make 
tkem unhappy ! Pray ask the opinion of 
my friends the Poets." 

u Your friends the Poeis," resumed Mi- 



65 

nerya, " to say no worse of them, are no-* 
thing but Poets." 

" Poor Apollo !" said Venus with a sim- 
per. 

u Why so?" cried Minerva. u Your 
artifice to make them your partizans, turns 
out to be very unlucky. When a bard is 
fired with the noble raptures of Apollo, 
lie chants the praises of the Gods, of sages 
and of heroes ; but your amorous swains 
are the advocates of wine, and derive their 
inspiration from the goblet of Bacchus." 

M Zounds i" cried Bacchus with a care- 
less air ; and in uttering this apostrophe, he 
gave a wink to Ganymede to replenish his 
goblet . But Ve n u s a rose fro m her seat , and 
straightways trip! along the ground to Ju- 
piter. 

" Dear father!" said she (with that di- 
vine complacency of aspect which unbends 
the frown erf care and disarms the heart of 
anguish); and then she gently patted and 
stroked his beard, insomuch (hat no ves- 
tiges of a frown or wrinkle remained any 
longer upon his countenance : — 4£ dear fa- 
ther!" sht: resumed, Ci thc^i art emui'el m. 



66 



thou knowest me. Say, is it truc ; that I 
make mortals unhappy ?" 

The perplexity of the awful Sire of the 
Gods was inexpressible, and .Juno gnashed 
her teeth in a paroxysm of rage. For, 
how greatly soever she abhorred the infide- 
lities of her spouse, yet all allusions to this 
delicate subject were, if possible, still more 
offensive to her ears, provided they did not 
proceed from her own mouth, behind the 
silent hangings of the matrimonial couch. 

At length the Father of the Gods broke 
silence, and with a stammering accent, ut- 
tered the following ejaculation: " Chil- 
dren, why will ye be always wrangling 
thus ? If benevolence be, as Minerva says, 
the chief characteristic of a Divinity, then 
ye need only make a hearty reconciliation 
in order to approach this august model. 
Apollo lias already admonished you, and I 
have frequently enjoined you to do so. 
Make an everlasting covenant together, and 
then mortals will no longer be under the 
necessity of wandering over the Gocytus in 
order to find an Elysium. Both its shores 
will he crowned ^ith an eternal verdure. 



67 

You, Minerva, are too severe, and you, 
Venus, are too giddy." 

u How, too severe?" said Minerva; in 
saying which words, she requested Juno, 
to permit her to send the messenger Iris 
upon an errand, with which request the 
latter cheerfully complied. She whispered 
something into her ear, and Iris mounted 
her party- coloured bow, and glided swiftly 
through the fields of ether. 

u Jupiter," resumed Minerva, ii I accept 
the proffered mediation ; only take pa- 
tience for a few moments, and then I sub- 
mit to your arbitration." 

In a few moments Iris returned, bringing 
along with her a figure which filled the 
whole Conclave of the Gods with amaze- 
merit. It was no substantial form ; it was 
the airy phantom of a human being ; a 
haggard, superannuated invalid, labouring 
under all the infirmities of old age in the 
early season of youth. His eyeballs, which 
no longer flashed any beams of lambent fire, 
w ere motionless, and deeply sunk into their 
sockets ; his neck was stooping forwards, 

f 2 



GS 



and incurvated ; his voice wr.s hollow like 
the voice of Nestor. 

66 There!" exclaimed Minerva, cc con- 
template the happiness, the supreme bliss, 
winch the Goddess of Love reserves in store 
for her votaries. The whole earth is peo- 
pled with such monuments of woe. You 
conceive her to be the fountain of life and 
happiness. You are mistaken. She stands 
in a close league with the daemons of mor- 
tality. Nay, when the fatal sisters, less 
barbarous and inexorable than herself, 
have only spun out half the thread of ex- 
istence ; she it is, who brandishes the fatal 
shears, and snaps it asunder with a ghastly 
smile. 11 

All the Gods and Goddesses — for they are 
all equally interested in the welfare of hu- 
man-kind — stood aghast at this spectacle. 
Jupiter shook his hoary locks with such 
vehemence, that (he spacious vault of the 
heavens Vibrated with a tremulous roncus- , 
sion throughout all its chambers • Every 
mouth overflowed with murmurs, nav? even 
the bloody-minded Mars himself, conjured 



69 



together with a tremendous imprecation, 
all the black streams of hell. 

In. the mean time the Cyprian Goddess 
sat trembling and petrified with horror, as 
though she would glide through the crys- 
tal pediment of the heavens and plunge 
into the dark caverns of Mount Caucasus. 
Now and then she ventured to cast her 
timid eje upwards, as if willing to im- 
plore forgiveness and to promise reforma- 
tion. 

But no sooner had she divined the drift 
of Minerva, than she gave a private signal 
to Mercury, who instantly comprehended 
her meaning, and hastened to execute her 
instructions, with as much complaisance as 
if they had proceeded from the august She 
of the Gods. 

It was indeed somewhat marvellous, but 
no less true, that the whole Conclave of the 
Gods was entirely at the disposal of the 
little laughter-loving Goddess. She was 
the empress of Olympus, and more absolute 
than Jupiter himself. They all loved her, 
and were ambitious to administer to her 
f3 



70 



pleasures; the Gods in a more open, the 
Goddesses in a more clandestine manner. 

Minerva had already resumed her speech , 
and was engaged in one of the most pro- 
found dissertations — more profound than 
any which a member of the French aca- 
demy of a German monarch ever pro- 
nounced — wherein she expounded with the 
utmost ingenuity 3 the true essence of joy 
and happiness : and demonstrated by the 
most irrefragable arguments, that all the 
gifts which the Goddess of Love offered to 
her votaries, were nothing but visionary 
blessings, silly, sensual, transitory and 
beastly ; — but now Mercury made his ap- 
pearance a second time. 

u Another phantom!" exclaimed their 
Godsbips. a Did not the spectacle of one 
already suffice ? Avaunt ! A vaunt ! Away 
with him ! Would ye metamorphose the 
heavens into an Orcus ?" 

" Alas!" said Venus with a profound 
sigh, as if she were unable any longer to 
support her confusion, " and hast thou ? 
Mercury, also conspired against me;" 



71 

How, Madam !" said Mercury archly, 
<c What in the name of the holy Styx have 
you to do with this scarecrow? You may 
blush as much as you please for the other! 
Let Minerva take shame to. herself, for 
this!" 

u What, Minerva!" cried Venus, re- 
suming her accustomed gaiety (whilst the 
Goddess of Wisdom remained speechless) 
- — u but by Jupiter, even so it is! This is 
no amorous swam; this is a sage. Poor 
w ight ! let me s u rvey thee ! Thou bl inkest . 
Canst thou not support tliis^pure, mild 9 
ethereal light of heaven? Are thy organs 
of sight so much imp-aired 

" Alas! Goddess/' returned the unhappy 
wretch, u my organs of hearing are not in 
a. better condition. Accost me, 1 beseech 
you, in a more gentle accent; for your 
voice perforates and stuns my ears like the 
bellowing accents of Jupiter tondns" 

" How can that be?" resumed Venus, 

All the Gods agree that my voice Is 
sweeter and more gentle than any in Olym- 
pus. But I perceive thou art quaking 
and shivering. Art thou not refreshed by 
f 4 



the pure, ethereal zephyrs of this eternal 

spring ?" 

" How should that come to pass, God* 
dess ?" rejoined the hapless victim ; " the 
genial current of the blood no longer thrills 
and exhilarates my veins/' 

" What unaccountable impotence is 
this!" exclaimed Venus. " Pray, Gany- 
mede, pour him out a goblet of wine." 

" Ah ! spare me, Goddess, spare me," 
returned the poor wight. " A sudden 
ebullition of the spirits would be infallibly 
accompanied with subsequent lassitude and 
insupportable languor." 

" Well, Madam," said Venus, briskly 
turning about to Minerva, who was quite 
abashed — u what think you of the com- 
plexion of the cheeks, and impotence of 
these two cripples ?" 

" Is it my fault," said Minerva, 
pouting," if this ninny has abused my 
benefits?" 

" And am I to bear the blame," rejoined 
Venus, " if the other, by his incontinence, 
lias converted my blessings into a virulent 
poison ?" 



73 



<c Wow dare you make such a scandalous 
parallel!" cried Minerva. 

" How so ?" resumed Venus. 

" When we consider the matter aright," 
rejoined Minerva, " my votary has been 
engaged in nobler pursuits. He has en- 
deavoured to conduct the human race into 
the paths of wisdom and of virtue." 

" And my votary," cried Venus, " has 
endeavoured to polish the savage manners 
of mankind." 

Their dialogue was now interrupted by a 
sudden uproar in Olympus. All the Divi- 
nities of the female order, nay even old 
grannam Ceres herself, endeavoured to con- 
ceal their blushes, by disguising their coun- 
tenances with their hands, and by low 
murmurs of indignation, signified their dis- 
pleasure at the indecorous demeanour of 
their female associate. But Jupiter gave 
positive injunctions to Mercury to convey 
the two scarecrows with all convenient speed 
from the dome of Olympus, that they 
might no longer disturb the serenity and 
iappiness of the celestial abode* 

" You may save yourself the trouble 



74 

of a second errand/' said he, 66 by con- 
ducting them straightway s to the Styx ; for 
Pluto will, doubtless, take it for granted 
that they are real ghosts." 

Hereupon he addressed the following dis- 
course to the Goddesses of Love and of 
Wisdom. " Behold," said he, " the con- 
sequence of your dissentions ! Behold the 
fatal effects of your ambitious strife for 
universal empire ! AH of us collectively, 
all the Divinities of Heaven, ought to have 
only one altar and one temple. For (he 
human race were not created exclusively 
either for intellectual or sensual voluptu- 
ousness. The intemperate use of both, 
proves equally fatal and destructive to 
them. 

u Whereas the animal nature of man 
cannot subsist independently of our col- 
lective benefits ; without my ether, with* 
out thy air, O Juno, without thy waiter, 
Neptune, with thy sheaves, O Ceres, or 
without thy fire, Vulcan" — 

u Or w ithout my wine," exclaimed Bac- 
chus, and brandished his goblet in token 
of triumph. — 



75 



" In like manner," pursued Jupiter, "his 
intellectual and spiritual particles cannot 
subsist independently of your collective be- 
nefits ; without thy sagacity, Minerva, with- 
out thy benevolent instincts, O Venus, or 
thy Muses, Apollo" — 

Reader, bewail along with me our com- 
mon mishap. Whilst I was transcribing for 
thee this delectable and philosophical dis- 
sertation, which that sly rogue, Mercury, 
had contrived to bring me by stealth from 
the archives of the heavenly Conclave, a 
fatal zephyr came rushing into the little 
bower where I was sitting, carried off my 
precious manuscript, and dispersed it in the 
air. Rest satisfied, therefore, with what I 
have been able to communicate to thee, and 
take patience awhile, until I can recover 
the fragments which atB lost ; for I am now 
engaged in a diligent search after them* 



76 



EPISTLE 

OF 

MEOENAS TO AUGUSTUS CLESAR* 



I have canvassed in my mind, im- 
perial Caesar, those proposals yon graci- 
ously Communicated, in our conference 
last night. It is your good pleasure to 
empower mo, as your deputy, to convene 
the most illustrious bards and sages of 
Greece at the metropolis of the Roman 
world. You flatter yourself that their so-f 
ciety .will afford the most delectable relax* 
ation from the cares of government ; that 
your meritorious labours for advancing the 
prosperity of Art and Science, will be greatly 



* This was actually transcribed in the Vatican, from 
a manuscript of one of the ancient Fathers oi the Church. 
Internal evidence renders its authenticity somewhat du- 
bious; because it is far from being that gay, effeminate 
species oi composition, usually ascribed to Mecamas. 



77 



enhanced by a munificent patronage of such 
characters ; and finally, that your name, 
enshrined in their works, cannot fail to ob- 
tain the meed of immortality. 

First of all, Caesar, allow me to pro- 
nounce once more a warm panegyric upon 
this glorious conception. It is an i dea wor- 
thy of your magnanimity, commensurate 
with your unquenchable thirst of glory s to 
achieve such an exploit, is perchance ie 
only means whereby the successor of the 
godlike Julius can emblazon his name in 
the eye of his contemporaries and in the me- 
mory of after ages. It is scarcely possible 
that you should reap a more abundant har- 
vest of laurels, than your warlike precursor 
has already won in his martial career ; be- 
sides, however refined your state policy, 
however sublime your legislative wisdom 
maybe, I am still doubtful, whether you 
have actually surpassed him. Conse- 
quently, this is the only laurel which Cae- 
sar has bequeathed as the fair inheritance 
of your ambition. Not that he disregard* 
ed Scie nce or Art with the supercilious dis- 
dain of a rude warrior, like the unpolished 



78" 



Marius. No ; it is unreasonable to suppose 
this of a man who would have been the 
most shining orator, had he not been the 
most illustrious commander of Rome : but 
an everlasting warfare forbad him to culti- 
vate the arts of peace, and during his late 
interval of repose, the universal profligacy 
of Roman manners, made him ambitious 
to personate the character of a Solon, rather 
than that of a Pericles. 

But may I venture to propose one single 
question to your Imperial Majesty ? Where- 
fore are Greeks, and not Romans, the ex- 
clusive objects of your choice, to whom 
you grant free access to your palace, and 
whom you honour with your familiar cor- 
respondence and esteem ? Might not this 
singular partiality towards a foreign nation, 
this unequivocal, perhaps unfounded pre- 
dilection for their language and genius, en- 
gender unpleasant if not painful sensations 
in the minds of your loyal Romans ? More 
Especially, if the Greeks (as may justly be 
presumed from their native vanity) should 
ostentatiously plume themselves upon that 
pre-eminence assigned to their talents by 



79 



the first monarch of the universe, and 
should look down with arrogance upon 
those who have not only achieved the vic- 
tories of Caesar, but also your own immor- 
tal triumphs ; nay, whose brave ancestors 
have purchased those domains, now swayed 
by your glorious sceptre, with torrents of 
blood. Did this avowal of contempt for 
their genius or language (which of itself 
is the true criterion of genius), simply and 
directly originate from your own person, 
it must nevertheless afflict your Romans in 
the most sensible manner ; but how greatly 
would they find themselves aggrieved, 
should arrogant foreigners also display a 
like disdain, in a way still more reproachful 
and contumelious ? 

Most assuredly, as an individual, I freely 
confess, that the bare idea alarms my Ro- 
man pride, although, for my own person 
(on account of those affectionate bonds of 
intimacy subsisting between us), I have not 
so much to apprehend from the arro^a nee 
as from the fawning obsequiousness of these 
foreigners. Self-love (as you will doubt- 
less know) is a principle not wholly con- 



80 



centred within our proper self : in the mem- 
bers of our family, of our ancestry, of our 
nation, in an individual affianced to us by 
a similitude of manners, of language or oc- 
cupations, we feel ourselves flattered or in- 
sulted, honoured or disgraced. 

The ultimate scope of your wishes, Caesar, 
is the love and attachment of your Romans, 
not only because these affectionate regards 
are the nerves and sinews of your power, 
but also because you desire a reciprocity 
of sentiment, corresponding with your pa- 
ternal predilection for your subjects. Con* 
ciliate, therefore, their hearts, I beseech 
you, by a demonstration of regard, of all 
others the most powerful and endearing to 
a community which lias emerged from a 
state of barbarism, and mounted the pin- 
nacle of refinement ! Convince them that 
you not only prize the sinews of their arm, 
but likewise the fire of their genius ; that 
you conceive them capable of achieving 
similar miracles through the magical tones 
of their nervous and energetic language, 
as by their warlike tactics; nay, that it 
Would be the con.su m run tipn of vour most 



81 

ardent tows, the most signal triumph of 
your life, to behold your Romans bear 
away the bays of genius, as they heretofore 
snatchcd the palm of victory from sur- 
rounding nations. 

Deign to be the munificent patron, the 
vigilant guardian, and zealous prompter 
of aspiring genius ; and rest assured that 
your grateful metropolis, the mistress of 
the world (when she shall hereafter behold 
your name standing foremost on the cata- 
logue of those worthies, who have ushered 
in the dawnings of this golden age), will, 
in the overflowings of her gratitude, not- 
only hail you as the patron, but also as the 
founder of her glory. 

1 will readily acknowledge, august En> 
peror, that it is beyond the capacity even, 
of the mightiest potentate, to create an aera 
when genius discloses its fair blooming. pro-, 
geny ; for this revolution can only be ac- 
complished by the nice bearings and de* 
pendencies of countless causes, insomuch, 
that a sovereign, far from being capable of 
producing this marvellous coincidence of 
primary causes, is himself; in a great mea- 

G 



82 



sure, Subjected to their controul; for the 
culture of his mind, his taste and know- 
ledge, are circumscribed by the age wherein 
he lives. But, nevertheless, should a su- 
perstitious faith in the omnipotence of 
rulers be still prevalent ; should Romans 
incline to believe, that what grew and flou- 
rished under the shade of obscurity, with- 
out your co-operation, nay, perchance with- 
out your connivance, was actually gene- 
rated by your nursing care ; should they 
imagine, that without your fostering pa- 
tronage, or the sunshine of your gracious 
smiles, the mellow fruits of their genius 
(ripened by a gradual, imperceptible pro- 
cess) would not have been concocted or 
have attained their high flavour and matu- 
rity : then you may fairly derive one ad- 
vantage from this superstition, by confirm- 
ing their attachment towards 3'our person, 
and by exalting that glory, which you have 
already so amply deserved. 

Suffer a Roman to indulge this dear de- 
lusion, thai without your genial influences, 
his fancy and his heart would not be re- 
galed with a luscious banquet of intellec- 



83 



fual pleasures, which, to a polished citi- 
zen of the world, are of far higher value 
than the brutal joys of sense, and which 
are also held in high estimation by the 
sage, on account of their filial alliance with 
the superlative treasures of Science and Art. 

It is unquestionably true, that, owing to 
a mighty predilection for the literary pro- 
ductions of Greece, by habits of early edu- 
cation, implanted in the minds of our Ro- 
man grandees, you would likewise be hailed 
as a benefactor by many of our Roman 
citizens, if you could succeed in manuring 
the barren, unproductive soil of modern 
Greece, or make it yield once more a fair, 
blooming w r reath of flowers and blossoms. 

But how far more universal would these 
overflowings of gratitude be, if you perso- 
nated the more dignified character of a 
patron and reviver of Roman art, when the 
whole aggregate population of your realm 
would share in your benefits ! 

Let us, for once, suppose, that those 
temples and magnificent monuments of ar- 
chitecture, whereby you have already or- 
e's 



81 



namenied this city, or whereby you pro- 
pose at some future period to beautify your 
Roman metropolis ; let us for once suppose 
tliat they were reared upon the soil of At- 
tica ; even in those distant parts, they 
would attract the gaze and admiration of 
your Romans; but this grateful spectacle 
would only foil to the lot of those happy 
few, whom the avocations of business, the 
incentives of pleasure or of instruction, 
conducted to Greece; it would not be con- 
templated by the community at large, 
which, with the exception of warriors and 
mariners, is ordinarily indigenous in the 
mother country. 

But might not the remainder also desire 
to be regaled in their native land, with a 
diurnal feast of the same spectacle, which, 
in foreign climes, they can only contem- 
plate for a season ? 

Would they not presently assent to the 
popular cry, that those treasures extorted 
from Romans, were dissipated by your pro- 
digal hand, in order to beautify a foreign 
soil with superb monuments of architec- 



S5 



lure, 'whilst you suffered the mother coun- 
try to be neglected, and to retain its gro- 
tesque, barbarous aspect ? 

But when we moreover reflect, that since 
the fatal blow which crushed the liberties 
of Greece, and demolished the proud fabric 
of her republican states, the genius of an- 
cient Greece has, by a gradual insensible 
decay, shrunk to the most dwarfish pro- 
portions ; when we consider that the elastic 
pinions of this towering genius (so won- 
derfully constituted for the most daring 
excursive flights) have been relaxed and 
unstrung by age ; farther, that the Corin- 
thian capital of her glory rests upon the 
artificial base of miracles, perpetuated by 
hearsay and tradition (the magnitude of 
which can by no means shed additional 
lustre upon a degenerate posterity) : when 
you contemplate all these facts, 1 say, what 
hopes can you rationally cherish of en- 
hancing the glory of your reign or ex- 
ploits, by heaping preferments upon natives 
of Greece? This project would only serve 
to expose your shame to the eyes of man- 
g 3 



S6 

Jkind, and prove your incapacity to create 
talents, where none exist, or to resuscitate 
energies already expiring and decayed. 

Applaud, therefore (along with the con- 
senting voice of all ages and of every indi- 
vidual, gifted with intelligence and sensi- 
bility), those magnanimous Greeks, who 
once existed in ancient days, but not those 
who exist in modern times ! 

Instead of a Homer or a Pindar, you 
will find some vapid commentator ; in the 
place of a Lysias or a Demosthenes, some 
frothy frigid rhetorician ; in the room of 
a Socrates or a Zcno, some obscure, pe- 
dantic sophist. The glorious lyre of a 
language, incomparably refined, copious 
and redundant in all the varied modula- 
tions of harmony — this glorious lyre 3 I say, 
remains hitherto undemolished by the ra- 
vages of time ; but those feeble hands which 
ought to strike its chords, are paralytic — 
those mighty geniusses, who knew how to 
elicit divine airs and ravishing strains from 
this celestial instrument, have descended 
to the shades, and no Hercules, however 



87 



godlike Lis physical powers may be, can 
ever recal them to ,the regions of this 
upper world. 

But let us hazard a conjecture (which is 
very admissible), that the genias of Greece 
suddenly awoke from that supine lethargy 
wherein he lay entranced, and a golden era 
of the arts had already commenced : would 
this, I ask, be the blooming period of rosy 
youth, endued with supernatural force, 
with genial fires, or with a bold, enterpris- 
ing activity ? Would that new age (which, 
conformably to our hypothesis, is to dawn 
upon this nation), I will not say equal, but 
barely resemble the glorious age of a Pe- 
ricles? And will the magnanimity of an 
Augustus (when he suffers this age to bear 
the effigy of his venerable name) support 
the idea of finding himself infinitely de- 
graded beneath a petty demagogue of 
Athens ? 

Your Roman metropolis, august Empe- 
ror, presents a prospect diametrically op- 
posite to this. Here (if appearances do not 
beguile us) a golden age is approaching 
with rapid strides, leading in its train the 

G 1 



8S 

Loves and the Graces. Here, all the vistas 
are delightful and magnificent ; whereas, 
on the other hand, they are gloomy and 
dismal on the isthmus of Greece. 

That rough, boisterous season is already 
elapsed (thanks to your tutelar patronage 
and to the immortal Gods !) which was 
so unpropitious to the growth of refined 
intellectual pleasures: the fabric of the 
state is consolidated upon an everlasting 
basis, by your sage policy ; the bosom of a 
Roman, which formerly heaved with gigan- 
tic projects of ambition, was convulsed by 
parly rage, groaned beneath the pressure 
of patriotic cares, or was oppressed by a 
regard to property and personal safety, is 
now tranquillized by that invaluable bless- 
ing you have conferred upon us, interned 
pi ace. 

Our manners are become more gentle and 
humane; and whilst that prodigious tide 
of wealth which flows in upon us from 
every quarter of the globe, affords taste 
and leisure for every species of rational 
d( Light, we insensibly incline towards those 
refined pleasures, for which the people of 



89 



Athens had formerly such a remarkable 
predilection. 

Now a spacious amphitheatre is thrown 
open for the glorious race of Genius, where 
lie will no longer entwine the laurel around 
liis temples in the presence of some few 
solitary patrons, but amidst the shouts of 
an applauding multitude. His enthusiasm 
is fired by the prospect of a munificent 
recompense, and his energies are propor- 
fionably augmented. With fierce impa- 
tience he rushes into the barriers, and finds 
the space lie has to traverse, far more 
smooth and level than it was heretofore in 
the days of Ennius or Lucilius. The tones 
of the Roman language, formerly rude, 
harsh, and impoverished, ever since the 
halcyon days of the Seipios, have been 
enriched, refined, ennobled ; nay, even the 
era of civil discord has added some share 
of culture and amelioration. 

Orators of the first magnitude and genius, 
whom Athens has never overmatched, have 
captivated the ears of a Roman, in order 
to secure - the applause of his heart ; have 
polished, harmonized, and modelled our 



90 



language ; have embellished it with elegant 
turns and splendid imagery ; nay, with 
regard to delicacy and elegance, have ex- 
alted it nearly to a level with the Greek, 
without diminishing that sublime majesty, 
wherein the character of the people who 
articulate its sonorous tones, is so admira- 
bly expressed and engraven. 

Your juvenile studies, august Emperor, 
have already made you familiarly acquaint- 
ed with those superb monuments which 
have been created in our language, pre- 
vious to the period of your great political 
exertions ; but owing to the complexity of 
those important transactions that have 
recently occupied your thoughts, you are 
unavoidably become a stranger to those 
incomparably superior productions which 
have issued forth from the laboratory of 
genius since that period. Do you not recol- 
lect that young, accomplished Mantuan 9 
to whom you restored his rural fields on the 
Mincio, and who so handsomely expressed 
his gratitude in a charming and beautiful 
eclogue ? He has sung many other rhap- 
sodies of the same kind with such a sweet, 



91 



musical voice, that, in this particular, lie 
greatly surpasses Theocritus, his professed 
model. But with a far greater lustre he 
outshines Hesiod in a didactic poem, that 
will ever remain the proudest monument of 
our language and taste ; which I shall recite 
to you, as soon as you signify your pleasure, 
the friendship of the author having put it 
in my possession. 

This single work would alone suffice to 
perpetuate his memory ; for the Loves and 
the Graces themselves have been his fellow 
labourers : but his ambition is not barely 
satisfied with having triumphed over He- 
siod ; he has just entered the lists with 
Homer; but although his powers might be 
deemed unequal to such a mighty con- 
test, and incompetent to snatch the palm 
of victory from such a doughty antagonist, 
nevertheless all that I have seen of the de- 
sign and execution of this performance, 
warrants me to conclude, that it will be- 
come the first epic poem, after the unri- 
valled rhapsodies of Homer ; nay, that 
Greece herself will not be able to produce 



92 



any thing which can compare therewith, 
save only this great original himself. 

How sincerely do I felicitate you, august 
Emperor, to those refined pleasures yet 
reserved for you, when you will be regaled 
with such a delicious banquet of transcen- 
dant beauties. 

To a distinction no less glorious and ho- 
nourable (although in a different depart- 
ment of poesy) is that young tribune en- 
titled, whom Mercury enveloped in a cloud 
at Philippi, in order to withdraw him 
from the pursuit of your victorious war- 
riors, and crow n him with the fairest gar- 
land of Parnassus, insomuch that he may 
justly be styled the Roman Alcseus. What 
rapturous enthusiasm, what sterling sense, 
what energies of language, what ravishing 
strains of harmony, are not to be found in 
the compositions of his lyre ! 

But what, I am sensible, will delight 
you still more than the most lovely or im- 
passioned effusions of his lyre, are those 
sprightly, inimitable productions (so easy, 
that they counterfeit the semblance of 



93 



graceful prose) which I am at a loss to de- 
signate otherwise than by the appellation 
of Moral and Satirical Essays, abounding 
in a knowledge of men and manners, im- 
pregnated with the wisdom of Socrates, 
and seasoned with the keen ridicule of 
Aristophanes. That salt which communi- 
cates such a high relish to these works 5 
has a genuine attic flavour, but is neverthe- 
less not imported from Attica, We find 
therein, the observations of Lucilius and 
Lucretius happily illustrated, that we are 
not so absolutely dependent upon Greece 
as the haughty Greeks imagine ; that we 
are sometimes better than servile imitators. 

I can scarcely refrain from blushing at 
my own presumption, august Emperor., 
when I recollect that I am pleading the 
merits of the Roman tongue before an Au<* 
gustus, who writes and converses in this 
self-same language with such fluency and 
elegance : I am ashamed of having pre- 
sumed to advance opinions concerning mas- 
terly performances, which your own taste 
would have suggested to you in a manner 
far more forcible and impressive. 



94 



Afford our immortal Poets a candid hear- 
ing, I beseech you, and examine their me- 
rits by the superior light of your own 
reason ; indulge your beloved Mecaenas 
with one gracious audience ; allow him to 
pass a few vacant hours in the evening in 
delightful converse with his Emperor, 
when he may introduce Virgil and Horace 
to your acquaintance, and also that inge- 
nious historian (of a more placid and se- 
date temper) who has already delighted 
your Imperial Majesty by the first speci- 
mens of historical genius, and will more- 
over demonstrate by the continuation of his 
history, that Romans are entitled to a pre- 
eminence above other nations, not only by 
their deeds of prowess, but also by that 
superior eloquence with which they record 
their martial exploits. I already anticipate 
in idea, Imperial Caesar, that vivacity with 
which you are accustomed to express your 
admiration of the sublime and of the beau- 
tiful, likewise the glorious impression which 
your applause will infallibly produce upon 
a people who arc so powerfully prepos- 
sessed with a predilection for the literary 



95 



chef tfcenvres of tbcir mother country, and 
lastly, how greatly you will stimulate the 
energies of a creative genius, already fired 
with a noble enthusiasm. 

Methinks I hear after ages celebrate your 
reign as the most fortunate and illustrious 
era of the Roman empire ; methinks 1 hear 
posterity extol those monuments of genius, 
which have been created under your imme- 
diate auspices and intuition, as the most 
immaculate models of a genuine taste : I 
behold the generous pride of the Roman 
and the humbled vanity of the Greek, no 
longer elate with conscious superiority, 
who w 111 tacitly acknowledge your justice 
and sagacity, in patronizing a nation, whose 
energy and talents were far more conspi- 
cuous and productive. 

Let us suffer the national vanity of the 
Greeks to dwell with peculiar complacency 
upon the pre-eminence of their early merits, 
upon the more musical tones of their lan- 
guage, and the more copious variety of 
their literary stores : let us suffer them, 
like the degenerate sons of an illustrious 
race, vainly to plume themselves upon the 



96 



high antiquity of their pedigree, and upoa 
those virtues of their glorious ancestors, 
which have never descended to their pos- 
terity. 



97 



SPEECH OF A PHYSICIAN 

OK 

POETIC GENIUS, 

AT A CONVIVIAL REPAST. 



Convivial repasts were a favourite 
species of composition with the ancients. 
Of this kind, the colloquial entertainment 
of Plato is by far the most beautiful and 
highly finished specimen. On this occa- 
sion, the theme introduced as a topic of 
discussion is Love, in that general accep- 
tation of the word, when it also comprizes 
Friendship as the most refined species of 
this noble passion. Would it not be a 
treat perfectly novel and unlooked for, if 
some modern, gifted with a portion of that 
celestial fire glowing in Plato's bosom, 
should regale us with a banquet, in which 
Poetic Genius were handled after the same 

H 



masterly manner? If the after copy should 
chance to fall infinitely short of its sublime 
prototype, this miscarriage could surely not 
be imputed to the sterility of the subject. 
The tine parts of an Aristophanes, of an 
Agathon, and of others, who made a con- 
spicuous figure in this colloquial entertain- 
ment, might easily be imagined ; it would 
be no insuperable difficulty to pronounce 
an impassioned panegyric upon Genius, or 
by interweaving some ingenious poetical 
fiction, to assign a plausible reason for its 
eccentric phenomena and various distinc- 
tions. 

But who would venture to pourtray the 
character of a Socrates ? Who presume 
that he could blend together the noble 
flights of fancy, the unrivalled beauties of 
a graceful diction, with an equal portion 
of acute reasoning ? 

Nevertheless, one of my deceased friends 
(whose manuscript is at present in my pos- 
session) had actually projected the outlines, 
and designed a rough draught of such a 
convivial treat. In the execution, how- 
over, he has, methinks, adhered somewhat 



99 



too scrupulously to his model. My suspi- 
cion is chiefly grounded upon the speech 
of a Physician, which occupies two sepa- 
rate sheets 5 commencing with an exordium 
cast nearly in the same mould as that of 
Eryximachus the Grecian physician. Per- 
haps it will not prove altogether unaccept- 
able, however rude and imperfect this 
draught may appear, if I rescue it from 
oblivion, and present it to my readers. 

The Physician followed immediately 
after the first interlocutor, according to the 
prescriptive order allotted to the guests at 
table. 

u My precursor/' said he, " has pre- 
faced his speech with an exordium incom- 
parably beautiful, which might \vell chal- 
lenge our admiration and inflame our cu- 
riosity. Whether or not his peroration be 
of equal excellence, this question, gen- 
tlemen, you shall speedily decide. 

u Fancy, says the orator, is the primary 
ingredient which we regard as essential to 
the composition of Poetic Genius, and the 
powerful auxiliary to Fancy, which fat* 
h 2 



100 



Dishes her wardrobe of materials, is Expe- 
rience. 

" With regard to these postulata, gen- 
tlemen, we arc doubtless unanimously 
agreed . 

" In the visionary dreams (he elegantly 
subjoins) of a man born blind, tones are 
distinctly heard, and the pressure of solid 
bodies sensibly felt, but he is absolutely 
deprived of the perception of light and 
colours, save only when the beneficent 
hand of a Casematta pours day-light upon 
his benighted vision. Hence it follows 
(pursues our orator) that the various mo- 
difications of fancy (the imagination of a 
Poet and of a vulgar individual) are all 
alike subject to the dominion of sensation ; 
ihey can do no more than, seizing the images 
which this faculty communicates, mould 
them either partially or collectively into a 
hundred different combinations. 

u My objections wholly apply to this 
latter position, both in its literal and con- 
structive sense. On the present occasion, 
gentlemen, you would doubtless marvel to 



101 



bear me deliver any sentiments, tinctured 
with a smattering of professional know- 
ledge ; nevertheless, this is actually the 
case. It is from the Science of Medicine, 
or, if you please, from some collateral 
study, that I derive those lights, whereby 
I conceive myself enabled to detect and 
rectify these errors. 

" When I hear speak of combination or 
analysis, my imagination transports me in- 
stantaneously to the workshop of some me- 
chanic artizan ; but this is not the labora- 
tory of genius. In the former case the 
materials destined to undergo a laborious 
progress (as to their elementary particles) 
are left perfect and entire, whereby the 
whole labour is ultimately confined to the 
mechanical operations of solution and com- 
bination. On the other hand, the labours 
of genius require a more elaborate process^ 
something diametrically opposite and more 
refined; nay, an individual deficient in 
this particular, although he may claim the 
meed of original invention, will still be re- 
garded as devoid of those immortal fires 
which constitute the essence of genius. 
B 3 



102 



" Unquestionably, gentlemen, we have 
all of us read of that unhappy visionary, 
the Prince of Patagonia, a Sicilian by birth. 
If ever conceptions did exist, which might 
fairly lay claim to originality, be would 
justly be entitled to this pre-eminence. 

u But what a wild, incoherent and 
monstrous species of originality ! Whence, 
I ask, arose this phenomenon ? Jt was sim- 
ply owing to one circumstance, to wit, 
that this Prince actually possessed the most 
gigantic powers of combination that ever 
fell to the portion of any mortal. He ran- 
sacked the whole animal creation ; ampu- 
tated the heads of lions, the necks of swans, 
the bodies of lizards, the legs of goats, and 
by lumping together this marvellous as* 
semblage of discrepant materials, our ex- 
travagant projector created the most hide- 
ous monster that ever issued forth from the 
laboratory of a distempered imagination. 

" But, gentlemen, I readily anticipate 
a serious objection. 6 Here (you will say) 
all the component parts were a mishapen, 
incoherent mass. They were huddled to- 
gether out of th p whole animal creation > 



103 

without providential design or arrange- 
ment. Consequently their conjunction 
could not fail to produce a hideous mon- 
ster, no where to be found in the volume 
of Nature. But shall we conclude that this 
must be universally the case ? Must then 
every combination be composed of such 
heterogeneons materials ? 1 apprehend that 
this will ever be the case as long as it sim- 
ply remains a combination. For U\ every 
combination, the subordinate parts do not 
belong to one specific quantity, but to an 
aggregate of quantities, wholly distinct 
from each other; moreover, if their asso- 
ciation does not uniformly produce sueli 
hideous and ridiculous phantoms, it will 
most assuredly never create those delicate 
proportions, and that beautiful symmetry, 
conspicuous in the productions of genius 
and of art. 

u Let us recollect the example of Zeuxes, 
that illustrious Grecian painter. Tradi- 
tion acquaints us, that in order to assist his 
imagination in pourtraying his Helena, he 
assembled in his workshop, five of the 
most- enchanting beauties at Crotona; not 
h 4 



104 



with a view to select any particular indivi* 
dual, and then dismiss the remainder ; bat 
to collect the scattered rays of their respec- 
tive graces into one focus, and to transfuse 
them embodied into one godlike portrait. 

" Figure to yourselves, gentlemen, what 
must have been the result of this concep- 
tion ! Let us suppose for once, that from 
the mild slender form of Chloe our painter 
ravished by stealth the beautiful arch of 
the eye with the bashful, downcast glance ; 
from the pretty diminutive figure of Giyce- 
rion, glowing with transports of voluptuous 
desire, he transfused the libidinous attrac- 
tions of the pouting lip ; from the majestic 
commanding person of Danae, he borrowed 
the contemplative brow and the prominent 
elevation of the nose; from the sprightly 
graceful Daphne, he stole the elegant con- 
tour of the chin, with the bewitching sim- 
per and dimple. 

" What adventitious charms were sug- 
gested by the fifth beauty, whether eye- 
brows, cheeks, or flowing locks ? this ques- 
tion, gentlemen, you may resolve at your 
leisure. 



105 



a I will venture to challenge even the 
most credulous imagination, and inquire 
whether it be possible to huddle together 
all these graces in one harmonious portrait ? 
Or, whether the painter could possibly 
produce his ideal beauty by incorporating 
together all these dissimilar attractions ? 
For the countenance, let us substitute, if 
you please, the whole figure of those beau- 
ties, their necks, bosoms, shoulders, arms 
and feet; the difficulty is by no means re- 
moved, and we are still as much at a loss 
as before. 

" If this plausible narrative concerning 
Zeuxcs be not an absolute fiction (which I 
will not pretend to gainsay), this whole 
transaction must have been diametrically 
opposite to what tradition relates; then did 
Zeuxes only employ these superlative beau- 
ties as subsidiary aids to his fancy, to en- 
kindle in his bosom a momentary enthusi- 
asm, so that under the immediate impulse 
of inspiration, he was enabled to conceive 
a glowing portrait of perfections, whereof 
the bright colours were evidently borrowed 
from all, although the whole essentially 
differed from each individual, even in the 



106 



minutest shades ; an analogous process of 
decomposition, whereby the beautiful tints 
were dissolved and blended together, their 
essence being preserved, but nevertheless 
moulded into a new figure, as if by some 
magical spell. 

66 Now, gentlemen, you see I am as 
good as my word, and personate the cha- 
racter of a Physician, whilst I am engaged 
in a discourse on the Sublime and Beauti- 
ful; for in the room of combination and 
analysis, I have substitutsd the ideas of 
composition and decomposition, and thus 
have conducted yon insensibly from a me- 
chanical workshop into a chemical labo- 
ratory. 

" But in order to produce a more satis- 
factory conviction, 1 entreat you for the 
present to dismiss the Painter from your 
thoughts, and turn your meditations to- 
wards the Poet. 

" Shall we suppose that the unrivalled 
character of Othello were nothing more 
than an aggregate of individual traits, de- 
rived from experimental knowledge, and 
huddled together in one portrait with con- 
siderable dexterity ? Shall we imagine that 



107 

this glorious model, so perfect and consen- 
taneous in all its parts (which communi- 
cates such powerful impressions to^ the 
soul) ; shall we imagine, I say, that this 
were simply a combination of single traits 
of jealousy, partly abstracted from experi- 
mental knowledge and partly from obser- 
vation ? 

" Is it not far more rational to suppose, 
that this was likewise the conception of a 
creative fancy, wherein all the single fea- 
tures of experimental knowledge were dis- 
solved and compounded together, insomuch 
as to produce a model which bears a strik- 
ing likeness to Nature, but even surpasses its 
great original ? But methinks, I have com- 
mitted a fatal mistake, in making this tacit 
concession, that a Poet uniformly borrows 
his materials from external objects, and pro- 
duces a perfect model by moulding toge- 
ther an aggregate of images, drawn from 
the storehouse of experience. 

" How, supposing the immortal Shak- 
speare had found an infallible receipt for 
the most prominent features of his Othello, 
by suborning the fires of jealousy within 



108 



his own bosom, in order to contemplate its 
dire phenomena by intuition, but not to 
abstract its symptoms from cold medita- 
tion. His own experimental knowledge 
imight have superadded some profound, es- 
sential and strongly marked lineaments, and 
thus have furnished his tiery imagination 
-with a few germs, which it could fructify 
and rear up to perfection ; whereby he ac- 
tually metamorphosed himself into his own 
identical Othello, that wretched martyr to 
the most savage passion. Nevertheless he 
still retained that mysterious and incom- 
prehensible attribute of genius, to remain 
cool and recollected amidst the hurricane 
of passion. 

" If my endeavours to discover the truth 
have (as I apprehend) proved successful, 
then chemical energies will no longer suffice 
to illustrate the occult process of genius ; 
1 must substitute more sublime organic 
powers. 

"Hence! Avaunt! thou pitiful cold con- 
ceit of a workshop or laboratory, where a 
mis-shapen mass of inert matter undergoes 
a mechanical or chemical process ! Genius 



109 



appears now to be a more glorious, a more 
transcendant principle. It is the recep- 
tacle of generation for the offspring of the 
mind, in like manner as the womb of ani- 
mal life. Experience only furnishes the 
germ of conception, nay, oftentimes but 
a poor, pitiful germ. Instantaneously the 
latent energies of genius are roused to ac- 
tion ; an exuberant confluence of alimen- 
tary juices, swell, fructify, and devellop 
this germ ; and through the various stages 
of generation, rear it up to maturity. But 
now this vital ^process is accomplished, is a 
mystery involved nearly in the same obscu- 
rity as that of animal procreation ; a mys- 
tery wholly inexplicable, save only to the 
omniscient ken of the Supreme Progenitor 
of all those energies residing in the visible 
and invisible world." 



110 



DISSERTATION UPON DEATH, 

IN TWO DIALOGUES. 



FIRST DIALOGUE. 

At a small villa, contiguous to Besan- 
*$on, there lived an ancient, worthy Bri- 
gadier, the genuine pattern of virtuous mo- 
rals and of amiable manners. His name 
was Merville, and he had already numbered 
more than seventy years. Having served 
during the flower of his age in the armies 
of Lewis the Fourteenth, he had likewise 
imbibed that superstitious maxim, conform- 
ably to which, death, whether purchased 
in asserting the dignity and prerogative of 
our monarch, or in the just defence of our 
country, is equally honourable and merito- 
rious. But no sooner had lie won, by his 
heroic valour, the rank of a Brigadier, than, 
10 his unspeakable consternation, hebecame 
sensible that lie had been nothing more than 



Ill 



the ignominious tool of national oppression. 
From that very instant lie sought to obtain 
his discharge, by pleading incapacity; de- 
clined the pension with which the monarch 
proposed to recompense his valour, and 
blushed inwardly, when he surveyed his 
wounds, as one who regrets the follies and 
indiscretion of youth. With his own hands 
he cultivated his small patrimonial estate ? 
and dedicated to Philosophy and to the 
Muses, those vacant hours that were not 
pre-occupied by domestic cares. 

Inasmuch as the narrowness of his in- 
come enjoined a strict regard to economy, 
he was compelled in a great measure to 
forego the pleasures of society : the circle 
of his acquaintance was wholly confined to 
the conversation of two or three select 
friends. One of this number was Chev- 
reau, member of the parliament at Besan- 
con, a man who was cordially beloved by 
him, and who amply deserved his esteem. 

Chevreau was one of those highly fa- 
voured mortals, whom Nature has endowed 
with rare qualifications, constituting the 
ground- work of all excellence, both moral 



112 



and intellectual. He had not the smallest 
tincture of that levity with which the youth 
of his country are reproached. He was 
fiery rather than impetuous ; more contem- 
plative than jovial ; more benevolent than 
effeminate. He was not easily susceptible 
of superficial impressions, but those which 
he once admitted into his bosom, were 
profound and durable. His whole soul ac- 
companied the motions of his will, and in- 
fused energy into all his actions. Whereas 
he had enjoyed the most valuable blessings 
that can possibly challenge the gratitude of 
a human being towards Providence, a noble 
descent and a liberal education; these ad- 
vantages being superadded to the virtuous 
propensities of his soul, he consequently 
became a man of inflexible integrity, a 
staunch patriot, and one in every respect 
deserving the affectionate regards of a Mcr- 
ville. 

He only once felt the passion of love, and 
in that very instance (what might easily be 
presumed from his elegant taste) he became 
enamoured with the most lovely and ac- 
complished lady at liesan^on. Her name 



IIS 

was Theresa, and she was daughter to the 
president of that very tribunal, at which 
Chevreau in the sequel was nominated as- 
sessor. Those obstacles which, during a 
series of years, retarded the consummation 
of their nuptials, appeared insurmountable; 
but what would have extinguished the 
flame of love in men more pusillanimous 
than Chevreau, only served to augment the 
ardor of his passion. 

Theresa's choice had been already de- 
cided, ever since the early commencement 
of their intimacy, but it was her misfor- 
tune to be rich, and her parents were in 
hopes of making a more profitable specu- 
lation, and of matching one million of 
livres with an equivalent sum, or provided 
this should fail, of creating a connexion 
with the most noble families in the land. 
Her affection for Chevreau unavoidably 
exposed her to the most cruel indignities ; 
but with a laudable obstinacy, she per- 
sisted in making the declaration, that no 
arts of persuasion, no power upon earth 
should compel her to chuse any other alter- 
native than Chevreau or a nunnery, By 
i 



114 



this Unexampled constancy her parents were 
at length induced to dismiss some of her 
noble suitors, and being moreover admo- 
nished by the example of a distant relative 
(who had scarcely enjoyed the dignity of 
Marchioness some few months, when she 
had the mortification to behold her trea- 
sures glittering at the toilet of a mistress, 
and decorating the bosom of an opera per- 
former) they finally condescended to hearken 
to the proposals of Chevicau, and gave 
their consent to the marriage. 

The loving couple, who during this term 
of probation had exhibited such signal 
proofs of disinterested benevolence, now 
learnt in the warm transports of their mu- 
tual embrace, to prize the intrinsic excel- 
lence of adversity. 

Shortly afterwards, Theresa was far ad- 
vanced in a state of pregnancy, and Che- 
vreau already forestalled in idea the con- 
summation of his bliss by the birth of an 
heir, when at length this important crisis, 
so passionately desired, arrived, and The- 
resa was brought to bed. His transports 
were unspeakable, but they were the tran- 



115 



sports of refined sensibility, impressed with 
a profound sense of those moral obligations 
he had to fulfill, which lie solemnly pledged 
himself to hbld sacred and inviolable. 
Theresa^s child-birth had been fortunately 
accomplished, but some disastrous symp- 
toms that subsequently befell her, became 
daily more alarming, and endangered her 
lite. 

During her illness Chevreau never once 
quilted her bed-chamber, when urgent bu- 
siness did not oblige him to absent himself; 
and he beheld with unspeakable anguish 
the dreadful conflict of her youthful con- 
stitution when struggling with the agonies 
of death. 

Nature was at length vanquished ; it was 
with difficulty she could suborn a ghostly 
smile upon her pallid cheeks., or seizing 
(he hand of Chevreau, with her last feeble 
grasp press it to her bosom, and as ebbing 
life quivered upon her lips, faintly articu- 
late these words: " Chevreau, forget not 
our mutual loves! 1 ' ]f ever the solemn 
pledge of a death-bed was treasured up by 
i2 



116 



a faithful memory, it was the dying accents 
of Theresa. 

Chevreau performed her funeral obse- 
quies with marvellous equanimity. He 
contemplated her corpse for hours together, 
but not a single tear glistened in his eye. 
He hastily withdrew, took a solitary walk, 
and bitterly reproached himself with his 
own insensibility. It was not until the fol- 
lowing day that his feelings were aroused 
from this fatal lethargy wherein they lay 
entranced. In some obscure corner lie un- 
expectedly found a necklace of pearl, w hich 
he had once presented to Theresa, as a 
birth-day gift. This circumstance awak- 
ened his sorrows, and extorted a flood of 
tears. The diurnal spectacle of her little 
infant, the innocent author of her death, 
made his wounds bleed afresh, although 
(strange to tell !) it was also the only emol- 
lient of his grief. 

The mild and lovely features of Theresa 
began to dawn upon its countenance, and 
disclosed themselves more and more. — Che- 
vreau could never contemplate the child 



117 



without sensible emotion; it was a mixed 
sentiment of pungent sorrow and of volup- 
tuous pleasure. His paternal tenderness 
was augmented in a duplicate ratio. 

In a few years little Charles (for the 
child was christened by this name) became 
a most engaging and amiable boy, inso- 
much that he was beheld with a jealous eye 
by all the mothers of Besancon. The 
beauty of his delicate form was greatly im- 
proved by the sprightliness and hilarity 
beaming in his countenance. Chevreau la- 
boured assiduously in cultivating his infant 
mind, and was rewarded with those volup- 
tuous sensations (to which most parents ot 
rank and fortune are entire strangers) that 
a father is wont to feel, when he beholds 
the rapid progress of his son through the 
various stages of intellectual improvement. 
Little Charles began already to make a 
disclosure of his puerile conceptions and 
propensities, and the beautiful dawning? 
of a sound intelligence and of a virtuous 
heart already illumined his mind ; but all 
these bright prospects were destroyed by 
the small-pox (that arch fiend to the btt- 
i3 



118 

man species) and he expired in a deiirima 
of terror and agony. 

Chevrcau was also an eye witness of the 
illness and untimely end of this innocent 
martyr (who would often extend his little 
arms towards him, to solicit that succour 
winch he could not administer) as lie had 
formerly been the wretched spectator of the 
death of Theresa. 

Chevreau felt this recent stroke of adver- 
sity still more severely than the first; for it 
Tipped up his former wounds, and made 
them bleed afresh. 

Having i os t those two objects whom his 
heart prized above all other sublunary 
blessings, there remained nothing upon 
earth, worthy to engage his affections : he 
was deaf to the voice of friendship, he was 
regardless about his own person. For a 
mortal who is reduced to such an abject 
state of despondency as to be no longer sus- 
ceptible of affection for extraneous objects, 
cannot possibly love himself. 

Those genial fires glowing in his bosom, 
With which he had formerly cherished 
little Charles and Theresa, now consumed 



119 

his own vitals, and he silently indulged 
those meditations whereby a man (as it 
were) seeks to retaliate upon Providence, 
when he conceives himself injured. 

In this state of stubborn insensibility, he 
still retained ingenuity enough and energy 
of imagination to represent the whole ha- 
bitable globe as one dismal amphitheatre of 
woe, and thus he protracted a lingering 
existence with feelings and sentiments simi- 
lar to those which a free thinker and phi- 
lanthropist is wont to indulge, when he is 
placed under the sway of a despotic go- 
vernment. 

The only sounds that were still audible, 
or could perforate his torpid soul, was 
the voice of Merville. The discerning eye 
of this venerable sage, from the discourse 
of Chevreau, quickly deciphered his in- 
ternal frame of mind, but in their confi- 
dential intercourse his delicacy abstained 
from introducing the subject of his loss. 
He did nothing more than make some oc- 
casional efforts to awaken the sensibility of 
his friend for external objects, and, as if 
by chance, to start some fresh topics which 
i 1 



120 

might-produce a salutary revolution in his 
soul. 

Observing that Chevreau became daily 
4uore gloomy and disconsolate, Mervilie 
regarded his delicacy in the light of bar- 
brirous usage. He resolved to probe and 
cure the wound of his friend, before the 
venom should insinuate itself i„ to the vital 
parts and choke the stream of life An 
opportunity soon offered, when Chevreau 
more from an impulse of civility than of 
inclusion, paid him a visit at his villa. 

Ihere i s something amiss with vou 
Chevreau," said the veteran (gently rap- 
ing h,m upon the shoulder, with looks 
bespeaking the most cordial friendship) 
and methinks you do wron ff to disguise 
it wholly within yourself. Unbosom your- 
self to a friend, and if my sincere friend- 
ship be deserving of such confidence, un- 
bosom yourself to me . You have fre- 
quently honoured me with the appellation 
of father. I have been long conversant 
with the world, and have also encountered 
a storm of adversity." 
« Havejou !" exclaimed Chevreau, with 



121 



the accent of a man who is so heavily de- 
pressed by the load of his own calamity , 
that he cannot sympathize with a fellow- 
sufferer. 

Merville. 1 have witnessed the death 
of my spouse and of my children, and my 
bosom has felt alternately all those sensa- 
tions that ever human soul endured. I 
know experimentally, what it is when all 
our endearing ties are snapt asunder by one 
fatal stroke ; when the fairest pledges of our 
hopes are ravished from us. But, Che- 
vreau, there was a period in my life- time 
more disasterous than all this ; when friends 
to whom I confided my property, proved 
faithless and betrayed their trust. I aban- 
doned myself to despair ; I renounced all 
faith in human nature, all dependence upon 
virtue. 

Those beings similar to myself by their 
shape and complexion, I conceived to be a 
gang of ferocious monsters and of heinous 
offenders ; nay, it is only a man like your- 
self, who can partially comprehend my 
meaning, when 1 affirm that I was mise- 
rable. Alas ; my friend ! could you but 



122 



image to yourself this dreadful state by ex- 
perience. 

Chevreau. How, supposing I could 
picture to myself a condition still more de- 
plorable ? There are desarts and solitudes 
where you can withdraw from the society 

of man* But, Mervilie (here he made a 

sudden pause, and glanced upwards to- 
wards heaven). 

Mervilie. But, Chevreau- 

Chevreau. Why should my tongue di- 
vulge that misery, the bare conception of 
which staggers and overwhelms the soul ? 
(He paused again — and then subjoined with 
a tremor that convulsed his whole frame). 
How can you withdraw from the presence 
of God? 

Instantaneously he arose from his seat 
and retired to the garden, in order to break 
off a conversation which was become irk- 
some to him. 

The veteran accompanied his footsteps. 

Mervilie. C hevreau, you are my pri- 
soner, and shall not elude my vigilance. 
Come and commune with me as you would 
commune with your own soul. Speak out 



123 



boldly without any reserve. Say, do you 
murmur against Providence ? 

Chevreau. Supposing this were the case, 
Merviile, would it not be a most impious 
and frantic conception ? 

Merville. You would have still more 
reason to shudder, were there any solid 
cause for your discontent. But no, my 
friend (he subjoined, with a firm, intrepid 
accent), this is not, neither can it be the 
case. To murmur against the deity, would 
be to murmur against all that is good and 
lovely, and how can a rational soul be 
guilty of such an enormous crime ? Be- 
think yourself, Chevreau! doubtless your 
murmurs are simply attached to your own 
conceptions of the Deity. You shall pre- 
sently see, how greatly you are benefited 
by this hypothesis. Did the cause of your 
discontent actually originate from God, 
from a Being so inconceivably sublime and 
omnipotent, in what manner, I beseech you, 
could you obtain redress I How could you 
change the immutable economy of the uni- 
verse ? or arrest that torrent which sweeps 
you along with headlong fury ? But if the 



124 



cause be attached to your own conceptions 
of God, then you may find redress. Let us 
only rectify those erroneous conceptions, 
and instead of a false medium, let us endea- 
vour to find a luminous perspective ! 

They had already advanced to the mid- 
dle of the garden, where the eminence 
upon which Merville's mansion was situ- 
ate, went shelving down towards the vale, 
with a craggy and perpendicular descent. 

Here the veteran seated his friend upon 
a grass plot beneath the spreading shade 
of lofty chesnut trees — pointing with his 
hand towards the charming landscape be- 
fore them, which, as for as the eye could 
reach, was overspread with exuberant 
crops, with numerous flocks and vine- 
yards. Now (lie exclaimed with an in- 
trepid tone of voice) stand forth as the ac- 
cuser of Providence, and 1 will undertake 
its vindication ! ! 

Chccrcau. How! Merville! Shall a 
worm dare to rebel against One whose 
essence is infinitude? Shall an ephemeral 
being dare to arraign an omnipotent Cre- 
ator? Suffer me to worship him in silence. 



125 



God is present upon this spot where my 
tongue essays to speak. 

Mercille. He is also present when you 
think. 

Chevreau. But should I venture to 
speak, would you be able to solve all my 
doubts, to dispel my uneasiness, or obviate 
my objections ? 

Metmlle. No, Chevreau, not all. I am 
now standing upon the brink of the grave^ 
and the few hours that I may still survive^ 
would probably not suffice. 

On what occasion (I ask) did ever any 
mortal display so much ingenuity, tfr such 
subtle powers of invention, than vlien he 
ventured to arraign his Maker ? 

But if any particular sorrows, any spe- 
cial doubts perplex your mind — — 

Chevreau. Well then! Merrille ! you 
make me unbosom myself against my will. 
] will speak out boldly. It is net the death 
of my spouse or child, believe me, that 
occasions my present anguish. They are 
gone for ever, and I have subdued my 
grief. But the image of their death 
awakened the latent energies of my soul ? 



126 



and I began to explore the annals of hu- 
manity, the volume of Nature. O my be- 
loved friend! a mortal, if he values his 
repose, must not speculate, he must sim- 
ply dream. Forgetfulness is the only pa- 
nacea for his cares. 

I roll my eyes around, and glance over 
the vast, continuous chain of organized 
being, and of energies endued with a prin- 
ciple of action ; I behold them approach- 
ing with rapid strides towards their final 
goal of dissolution ! ! The swelling tones 
of hilarity, the vacant bursts of laughter 
invade my ears, but they quickly subside 
in waitings of unspeakable w oe ! 

I observe the jocund smiles, the warm 
transports of heartfelt rapture, but in that 
very instant I behold them suddenly me- 
tamorphosed into the delirious ravings of 
^Spiring Nature J 1 Every thing within the 
circumference of the Creation, is devoted 
to ruin, to destruction, and dissolution. 

The Angel of life is only an idle precur- 
sor, who resuscitates the stamina of orga- 
nize! being, that the Angel of death may 
f 1 1 (1 v> here w it h a 1 to gorge h is insatiable maw? 



127 



The dreams of happiness (uniformly 
placed beyond our grasp) only serve to 
amuse us awhile, and to make us prize our 
lives, in order ul Ornately to aggravate our 
anguish when standing upon the brink of 
dissolution. 

But when I contemplate the whole Accu- 
mulated mass of indefinable woe ! the fran- 
tic gesticulations of expiring victims ! of 
disconsolate widows ! of forlorn orphans ! 
— when I say to every inch of ground 
which I bestride, " Thou art the sepul- 
chre of many thousands, who were groan- 
ing and gasping after life upon thy sur- 
face, but were finally embowelied in thy 
womb ! !" — when I apostrophize every par- 
ticle of dust that flies upwards, and say ; 
" Thou wast once the nerve of a sensitive 
being, and hast been convulsed with a tre- 
mor under the apprehensions of death — 
when I picture to myself the whole am- 
phitheatre of the Creation, as one universal 
receptacle of corruption and putrefaction — 
how, I would fain ask, can you suppose 
me susceptible of mirth or laughter ? My 
brightest prospects are destroyed ; the pon- 



128 



soling idea of an eternal benevolence is obli- 
terated from my soul, and nothing remains 
but the terrific image of Omnipotence ! 

Your hand 9 Merville, pointed to yonder 
blooming vales, as if this spectacle con- 
veyed a complete refutation of my sceptical 
doubts ! But this Creation of beauty and 
of animated Nature, undulating before our 
view, originated from corruption, and must 
eventually dissolve into corruption again, 
I behold no longer any charms on the face 
of Nature. 

MerxiUe. How truly deplorable is your 
case ! But whence comes it that this self- 
same Creation, which formerly inspired 
you with raptures, should now appear so 
desolate ? Do you not recollect a period 
when you were seated here beside your The- 
resa ? Then you beheld nothing but life, 
beauty and glory undulating around ! then 
all the images of death, all the conceptions 
of misery, were obliterated from your soul ! 

Chevreau. I do recollect that period. 
It was a short interval of happiness, a 
transient glimpse of bliss. My fancy was 
attuned to joy. llow easily can fancy 



129 



create nn elysium out of a dreary soli- 
tude ! ! 

Mermlte, Can fancy actually perform 
such wonderful feats? Believe me, friend, 
the sorceress can likewise achieve far greater 
miracles : she can also, by dint of her mar- 
vellous energies, convert an elysium into a 
dreary solitude. Would you seriously con- 
fide in her treacherous oracles ? Would you 
pursue her footsteps when she is heedlessly 
gadding about in that oblique direction^ 
into which she was betrayed by the blind 
impulse of the external senses, and in her 
eccentric course strays so far from the tem- 
ple of truth ? 

Curb your extravagant flights with the 
powerful reins of reason. After this super- 
ficial glance, take, I beseech you, one im- 
partial, comprehensive survey of the Cre- 
ation : your heart will gradually recover 
its former tranquillity : this sudden gloom 
which clogs your animal spirits will sub- 
side into a sedate melancholy ; your vain 
resistance against an unpropitious destiny, 
will be succeeded by a calm acquiescence 
in the dispensations of Providence. Do I 

K 



ISO 



•pretend to deny that misery exists in na- 
ture ? Do I pretend to say that the idea of 
death is not formidable or tremendous ? 
No; I should belie my own feelings, were 
T to assert such a doctrine. 1 am as tho- 
roughly impressed with a sense of morta* 
lity as any other individual. I am equally 
appalled at the prospect of dissolution^ 
and am equally subject to the control of 
the Angel of Death. This demon often- 
times communicates a more tremendous 
shock to the enfeebled frame of a veteran., 
by his potent gripe, than to the robust 
constitution of a stripling. But will you 
attempt to deny that life has its pleasures, 
1 would say, its superlative joys? You, 
who have already received such a large 
dividend from the benevolent hand of your 
Maker ; can you be guilty of such ingra- 
titude as to deny this fact ? 

Ckevrecftt. No, Mervilk. I will not at- 
tempt to deny it. 

Merville. Then you acknowledge that 
human life has its pleasures •? 

Chevrcau. Yes, but these pleasures are 
NVisionary and inconstant. 



131 



MerviHe. What unfair reasoning is 
this, Chevreau! Are they more visionary 
(I ask) or inconstant than our pains ? 

Was that pellucid tear of sweet com- 
placency, which glistened in your eye 
some few weeks ago (whilst you were seated 
here beside your Theresa, entranced in an 
ecstasy of delight), was that tear, I say, 
less real or more visionary, than this sullen 
tear of despondency which now obscures 
your vision ? Will not this tear also pre- 
sently evaporate ? Existence has its actual 
pleasures, its ample store of joys. What 
else remains (I ask) but one single ques- 
tion ? Whether these pleasures be a com- 
pensation for misery ? Whether life be au 
equivalent for death ? If you are not now 
fully convinced, my friend 

Chevreau. How should I be convinced ? 
The evils of human nature lie naked before 
me. I behold them in their real magni- 
tude, in an endless variety of forms— but 
alas ! how scanty, how imperfect, bow 
transitory are its joys ! 

Merville. Thus a mortal is apt to think 
in an hour of affliction and despondency i 



432 

J might perhaps remind you that the lives 
cf thousands are more fortunate than youfsU 
But I shall simply confine myself to your 
mwi life. Do you really imagine that you 
enjoy such a paltry dividend of pleasures i 

Chevreau. How can I imagine what I 
know to be a fact ? 

Mervilte. Then you deceive yourself. 
Chevreau. 

Chevreau. You mean to say, " my 
own sensations deceive me." But, pray, 
to what other tribunal can I resort, when 
I am to decide concerning pleasure or pain, 
prosperity or adversity ? 

MerviUe. But perhaps your own s^n- 
£ at ions 

Chevreau. They are buried in the in- 
most foldings of my breast, and no human 
sophistry can dislodge them from their 
seat. 

MerviUe* I shall employ no sophistry : 
that is quite foreign to my purpose. Un- 
questionably each individual sensation is 
the most legitimate arbiter concerning 
Uiose phenomena that regard its own self; 
but its decision cannot affect cither the past 



±33 

or the future. My beloved friend! tiiat 
menacing cloud, which sits hovering over 
your head, darkens all the bright prospects 
of your life with a browner shade; a shade 
which discolours every object, and renders 
it deformed . W hen your memory retraces 
the past,- it beholds- nothing but the fiends 
of adversity crouded together in a long 
dreary procession. 

When you look forward to the future— 
what, I ask, are your conceptions of futu- 
rity ? It is a fleeting moment, magnified to 
a- -whole age. You stamp your sorrows 
with the image of immortality, and ima- 
gine, because your present loss will last for 
ever, that its concomitant effects will also 
prove everlasting. In this unhappy frame 
of mind, when all the evils that have be- 
fallen you, appear so hideous, so compli- 
cate and exaggerated ; when the scanty 
images of past joys are huddled together 
in the back ground, and can scarcely reflect 
a dim splendour, like twinkling stars in » 
cloudy night : if all this be the case, how 
Lash, can you confide in the arbitrary de 
cisions of your own sensations I 

K. 3 



134 



Wow can you decide whether pleasures 
counterbalance pains ? whether life be an 
equivalent for death ? 

O Chevreau! did I not dread lest I 
should harrow up your feelings afresh . . . 



Uuvrecit. How harrow up my feelings ? 
Merville. Well then ! hearken to my 
speech ! Would to God, that I could 
accost you with the voice of Omnipotence, 
and say : « Chevreau, I revoke my de- 
cree! I will make thy days as pleasant as 
the days of many thousands. Behold thy 
spouse, thy own Theresa, restored to thy 
embraces ! Behold (hat darling clasped in 
her arms, whose life was the cause of her 
death ! Then, when entranced in a deli- 
rious ecstasy, you reclined upon her bo- 
som, when, with the unspeakable transports 
of a father, you fondly caressed your an- 
gelic child : then, I would patiently wait 
until the tumults of your rapture began to 
subside into a placid serenity, and seizing 
your hand, I would exclaim : Chevreau ! 
s;iy, which is predominant in Nature, plea- 
sure or pain ? Then how suddenly would 



135 

the recollects of your anguish be oblite- 
rated and transmuted into pure sterling 
bliss! How quickly would those cloud, 
w hich mow obscure your horizon evaporate 
in airy exhalations '. But would this change 
affect your life, or would it not. rather 
affect your visionary conceptions of Mel 
Would not the past remain unchangeably 
the same in substance as it was before ? Or 
could you, or any other mortal, foretell 
W hat would befall you in future? 

Chevreau I (4 would repeatedly exclaim)- 
are not these transports of rapture an equi- 
valent for your former misery ? Then how 
speedily would that scale (which before was 
depressed with such a cumbersome load) 
once. more soar aloft ! 

1 observe, dear friend, that I give yon 
uneasiness, and must implore your forgive- 
ness,, hut whilst 1 commune with you, 
since I cannot suborn the irresistible voice 
of Omnipotence, employ for once the-cner- 
gies of your own reason : pause awhile at 
the present juncture ; interpose a partition* 
between the past and the future. Tour 
future prospects will not be so dismal as 

K. 4 



136 



your affliction would Fain persuade you ; 
I also grant, that all those comforts and 
high flown raptures, which I am inclined 
to augur as your future inheritance, might 
perhaps only serve to alarm your con- 
science, and you might regard them as a 
profanation of your paternal and conjugal 
loves. Consequently, now you must dis- 
miss futurity from your thoughts, and con- 
fine your speculations to the time past, 
Weigh every thing in an impartial balance ; 
examine which side preponderates, whether 
the scale of pleasure or that of pain. 

Ckevreau. O Merville ! in what an 
awful discourse have you involved me this 
day ! With what reluctance am I com- 
pelled to answer a question which my soul 
rejects. J abhor ingratitude, and must I 
now commit myself as guilty of this crime I 
No, my friend ; I will roundly confess that 
I have had a large dividend of pleasures. 

Merville. Your lips may pronounce 
the words, but does your heart tacitly ac- 
quiesce in the sentence? 

Chcvreau. I frankly disclose my in- 
ward sentiments; for most assuredly that 



137 



self same Providence, to whom I owe my 
existence, has also regaled my soul with a 
feast of joys. You see how readily 1 ac- 
knowledge the truth. 

Merville. You are obliged to make this 
confession; for did you actually never en- 
joy any pleasures-, wherefore this despon- 
dency on account of your losses ? or if they 
were so few in number, whence proceeds 
this intemperance of grief? But when you 
form an impartial estimate of your Iife r 
what criterion, 1 beseech you, would j^ou 
adopt for th is estimate ? Would you simply 
confine your regards to good or bad for- 
tune? To smiles or tears ? To hopes disap* 
pointed or accomplished ? To visionary 
evils, or imaginary blessings ? 

Chevreau* What other mode can I 
adopt in forming a just estimate ? 

Mervilie. Rather say, if you p!ease r 
what more absurd or erroneous mode can I 
adopt? This is that fatal mistake which 
makes us guilty of ingratitude towards 
Heaven, because we affix boundaries to our 
notions, which Nature has never assigned - 
because we sever and analyze complex idea^ 



138 



'•which are essentially interwoven and" com- 
pounded together. Melancholy oftentimes 
partakes more of rapture than of pain. 
Terror is frequently accompanied with pal- 
pitations of delight. Memory dwells with 
sweet complacency upon misfortune. Con- 
scious imbecility makes one friend cling to 
another. Sorrow humanizes the heart, and 
renders it susceptible of refined sentiment. 
Necessity imparts a consciousness of innate 
excellence, and of our intellectual energies. 
Imagination realizes dreams of happiness. 
After this manner, Chevreau, ought you 
to form an estimate of } T our life. But how 
can I require this in your present frame of 
mind? Hearken, I beseech you, to the 
voice of a friend, who has himself tasted 
the bitter chalice of adversity, who has 
suffered the same losses as yourself , and who 
also possessed a heart endued with sensibi- 
lity ! The whirlwind of the passions is 
now hushed within my bosom. In esti- 
mating the dispensations of Providence, I 
have no longer any cause for partiality, 
either with regard to intemperance of joy 
or of grief. My soul is tranquil and be- 



139 

calmed. With this sedate composure, I 
glance over my past life, and the result of 
my inquiries reconciles me with my Maker. 
My serene moments overbalance the hours 
of affliction ; the portion of good exceeds 
the measure of evil. To me the lives of 
thousands appear to wear the same com- 
plexion, as far as I am enabled' to form an 
estimate; in the same light I am inclined 
to contemplate the lives of animals and of 
reptiles, because the same God who is the 
Author of my being, also created them. 

Now, Chevreau ! I would fain express 
my gratitude towards you, for the consi- 
derable accession you have made to my 
small stock of ideas, for those luminous 
splendours which you transfused into the 
Creation, and with which you enlightened 
my mind. 

" Each inch of ground that I bestride 
was the sepulchre of many thousands!" 
What a fortunate discovery! All these 
mortals did actually exist, revelled amidst 
the joys of existence and were supremely 
blest ! 

4i Every particle of dust that fiies up» 



140 

wards,- was once a nerve endued with sen* 
sation!" But this self-same nerve was 
attuned to pleasure; it vibrated with rap- 
ture more frequently than it agonized- with 
pain.. J behold no longer any cause for 
sceptical doubts, any room for farther in- 
quiries, save only for this single question : 
Why is not this joy everlasting I Why 
must death exist in Nature ? 

Chevrean. I readily anticipate your an- 
swer. Since there must exist a principle 
of life, then you will naturally infer . . . • 

Merville. Undoubtedly, then death must 
follow of course. Death is the conditional 
postuiattim of life. With all its terrors 
and funereal pomp of evils, it is funda- 
mentally grounded in that self-same Na- 
ture, upon which the fabric of our joys is 
seared. But doubtless, Chevreau, you will 
not prosecute your inquiries, or ask, Why 
must life necessarily exist ? 

Cketreau. But am I not authorized to 
inquire: Why this particular nude of life 
and no other should exist? Why our na- 
ture should be exactly so constituted and 



141 

not otherwise? Why it should foe com~ 
pounded out of such brittle, mouldering^ 
and perilous materials ? 

McrviUe. How shall I answer that ques- 
tion r Must I refer you to the whole mun- 
dane system? Must I recal your attention 
to the inseparable concatenation of the se- 
veral links in that universal chain, which 
is so wonderfully wound up together, that 
not a single link can be severed without de- 
stroying the whole ? No, Chcvreau ; these 
meditations bewilder us in a labyrinth of 
obscurity. Allow me to substitute another 
question. Do you desire fruition ? Do you 
pant after happiness ? 

Chcvreaiu Undoubtedly, like all beings 
endued with sensation and intelligence. 

Merviile. But after what description of 
happiness do your wishes aspire ? Can you 
define it, or is it absolutely indefinable ? 
Can you form any distinct conception of its 
essence, or is it inconceivable ? 

Chevreau. Undoubtedly I have a dis- 
tinct conception of its essence. 

Merville. Bethink yourself, I beseech 
youl Behold 9 in what a labyrinth of ab- 



142 



surdity you arc now involved, and to what 
glaring inconsistencies every mortal must 
be reduced, who enters into a controversy 
with his Maker ! We would fain enjoy our 
happiness, our own individual happiness, 
attached to our own individual nature, en- 
deared to us by this self-same sensation ; 
but, nevertheless, we would also fain disrobe 
ourselves of this our individual nature, 
with which those pleasures are so closely 
interwoven and assimilated. Ought we not 
to blush, Chevreau, when we contemplate 
the futility of those accusations, whereby 
we would arraign Eternal Wisdom at the 
bar of our tribunal ? Let us obliterate 
these paltry objections and dismiss them for 
ever ! 

You tacitly acknowledge that human life 
has its joys, its superlative and transcen- 
dant pleasures. But we are apt to omit 
the major part in our calculation. That 
self-same Nature which confers these bless- 
ings upon us, is also the harbinger and pre- 
cursor of death. Surely it would be the 
most shocking impiety to arraign the Deity, 
because be has thought proper to bestow 



143 



tills individual nature and no other upon 
us ; because lie has assigned to man* the at- 
tribute of mortality, and has not created 
him an im mortal Angel, 

The bitter potion of death (what a pity 
that this sublime idea should have escaped 
my recollection before!) is rendered pala- 
table by the cheerful prospect of a better 
state and by the hopes of Eternity, which 
are confirmed by experience, by a know- 
ledge of 4h is mundane system, of ourselves 
and of our Creator. If this be the case^ 
how then can a mortal impeach Provi- 
dence? How can he pretend to discover 
in the scheme of his life, the malign in- 
fluence -of an evil Genius, instead of a& 
omnipotentbenevolence ? Nevertheless, Che- 
vreaii, death still appears to us in the light 
of a radical, although necessary evil. But 
is it not in all likelihood something else^ 
May it not also be the parent of some future 
good ? The author of indefinable bliss 
which could otherwise not be encompassed ? 

Chczreau. How can death be the au- 
thor of bliss ? 

Merville. By the same rule as &il other 



144 



natural evils. Contemplate yonder b ill or 
your right 1 You behold an assemblage of 
sable clouds, ■which proclaim an approach- 
ing storm. Those clouds contain in their 
womb the garrets of fecundity and of deso- 
lation, of ruin and of saltation. When 
we consider every circumstance, Chevreau, 
may we not rationally adopt similar ideas 
concerning death, the most tremendous of 
all evils ? But the Heavens already assume 
a more gloomy aspect, and this whirlwind 
which obscures our horizon Avith such a 
cloud of dust, presages an approaching tem- 
pest. Let us shelter ourselves within our 
dwelling. There, amidst the roaring of 
the thunder and the furious discharge of 
descending torrents, let us prosecute our 
meditations upon death, and upon that 
Deity, whose majesty is equally adorable 
in storms and tempests as in those gentle 
breezes which play around us in the morn- 
ing, when the sun emerges from the cham- 
bers of the East, and gilds the mountain 
tops with a purple Hood of radiance. 



SECOND DIALOGUE. 

No sooner had the veteran and his friend 
reached their habitation, than the canopy 
of the heavens was obscured, and flashes of 
lightning succeeded each other in rapid 
succession. Chevreau, with a lively sensi- 
bility, which the smiling landscape of Na- 
ture could not before awaken in his bosom, 
stood musing at the windows of the apart- 
ment, whilst his prying glance wistfully 
explored the sombre impervious gloom and 
the ravages of the hurricane, which up- 
rooted antiquated stems, and levelled the 
waving summits of younger trees with the 
ground. Jn the mean time, Merville 
walked to and fro with unruffled compo- 
sure, amidst the combustion of jarring ele- 
ments, revolving in his mind, what far- 
ther arguments he might adduce in order 
to justify the dispensations of Providence. 

" Fortunate Theresa! (he exclaimed, after 
a long pause) from what a scene of un- 
speakable woe and of dire phenomena has 
not death happily released her ! 

jj 



146 



" These clouds now glide swiftly over her 
head, disregarded and unperceived. Do 
you recollect when she first beheld the 
friend of her beloved spouse within this 
apartment, how dearly she purchased her 
satisfaction ? How the menacing storm 
hung suspended between the mountains, 
and how far more tremendous the explo- 
sion of the thunder was then than it is to 
day?" 

Ckevreau. I do recollect it perfectly 
well. It was her misfortune to purchase 
all her pleasures at too dear a rate. She 
also felt the most lively satisfaction when 
little Charles was born. (Here his imagi- 
nation pictured the image of her death, and 
his lips quivered with agony). 

Merville. This is an additional incen- 
tive to felicitate her upon her present re- 
pose. She was not born exclusively for 
this sublunary world. Who knows, Che- 
vreau, how greatly the sufferings of the pre- 
sent moment serve to enhance the joys of 
futurity ? Still, methinks, I behold her 
standing before me, the bright image of 
benevolence and of divine complacency ! 



147 



I behold her staggering, when claps of 
rumbling thunder assailed her ears with a 
more violent shock ! I behold her glancing 
heavenwards, her swimming eyes beaming 
with devotion, when the flashes of the fiery 
element reflected a more livid glare ! as if 
to mollify the anger of Heaven, which we 
are taught in our infancy to behold in these 
phenomena of Nature, As the explosions 
of the thunder began to subside, still nie~ 
thinks I hear her heaving a profound sigh, 
signifying to us how greatly she envied the 
inhabitants of the Northern climes ; and 
expressing a cordial wish to reside along 
with her spouse on the coast of Greenland 
or Lapland. She imagined that those re- 
gions were less subject to such-like phe- 
nomena than they actually are. Do you 
recollect, Chevreau, what reply you gave 
to this extravagant wish ? 

Chevreau. I answered with a smile of 
compassionate sympathy, 

Merville. And what was the subsequent 
demeanour of Theresa ? 

Chevreau. She was abashed, and looked 
downwards in modest confusion. Alas ! tlte 
l2 



148 



motions of her spirit were as quick and pe- 
netrating, as her sensibility was delicate 
and refined. 

Merxille* Those two qualifications are 
ordinarily inseparable companions, and go 
hand in hand together. But let Us explore 
the inward frame of her mind upon this 
occasion, and divine those sentiments which 
might have occasioned this confusion and 
these blushes. It is good for us to dwell 
upon such delightful topics, and to cherish 
her memory. Theresa! (thus mcthinks I 
hear her expostulate with herself) Hast 
thou formed a just estimate of the nature 
of thy wishes ? Didst thou appreciate the 
numerous advantages, thou must forego in 
order to escape one single calamity ? Tran- 
sport yourself in idea to those inhospitable 
shores ! 

What though yonder no clouds of thun- 
der be marshalled together in dreadful ar- 
ray ! no fiery torrents descend from the skies ! 
on the contrary, no stately forest over- cano- 
pies the ground with a genial shade ; no 
swelling tones of the nightingale reverberate 
in the gloomy glades \ no golden harvests 



149 



wave upon the plains, and no vines be- 
deck the hills ; the jocund notes of the 
reaper, the chearful songs of the vintner 
are not heard; no flowers exhale their fra- 
grance ; no mellow fruits present a luscious 
banquet : on every sid^, the whole fuce of 
Nature wears the shreds of one universal 
mourning, and exhibits one dull, monoto- 
nous landscape of death, of desolation, and 
dismay. 

And thou, Theresa! whose bosom glows 
with such refined sensibility, so susceptible 
of the beauties, so grateful for the blessings 
of the Creation ! Wouldst thou relinquish 
all this ? Would thou bury thyself in those 
dreary, disconsolate solitudes in order to 
elude now and then the horrid glare of the 
lightning or the tremendous explosion of the 
thunder? Wouldst thou forego those in- 
comparably superior blessings which thy 
reason and thy heart now enjoy ? Contem- 
plate the wretched hovels of these frozen 
regions! In the coarse, vacant lineaments 
of their savage inhabitants discriminate 
that senseless apathy and dulness, which 
originate from inclement skies ! Consider 
h3 



150 



moreover, that it is morally impossible they 
should ever emerge from this rude condi- 
tioner advance to a higher climax of civi- 
lization, as long as they remain in their ab- 
ject stale of squalid beggary. Theresa! 
Wouldst thou forego these advantages ? 

Wouldst thou renounce the golden 
dreams of an enraptured imagination, the 
godlike monuments of Art : that invalu- 
able treasury of knowledge by which thy 
reason is exalted, those voluptuous sensa- 
tions whereby thy heart is ennobled ? 
Wouldst thou spontaneously surrender all 
these blessings in order to elude a momen- 
tary glare of light, or a temporary deaf- 
ness ? 

Blush inwardly at the absurdity of thy 
wishes. Swiftly embark in the first vessel 
that offers, and return to thy native Para- 
dise ; where the combustion of jarring ele- 
ments rages, but which is also the amphi- 
theatre of bliss, of culture, and refinement • 

Chevrcau. Merville, you have dwelt 
too long upon an idea, which you as well 
as myself ought to ridicule with jocularity, 
but not refute with grave arguments It 



151 



•was adopted in a momentary panic, and 
quickly discarded after a slight reflection. 

Mervilk. Will you likewise authorize 
me to ridicule your own notion ? 

Chevreau. My notion ! Pray what may 
that be ? 

Merville. That the principle of death 
ought not to exist in nature. Chevreau, 
how far more barbarous, more destructive, 
was this wish, than the wish of your Theresa ! 

Chevreau. How more destructive ? It 
operated against destruction. 

Merville. Even for this simple, curious 
reason, because it operated against destruc- 
tion. By this proscription, yon also pro- 
scribe all the generations of the living, 
the human race in particular, to sutler 
perpetual durance and banishment under 
dreary, bleak, inclement skies. 
Chevreau. Is it possible ? 
Merville. Moreover, contrasted with 
this creation of yours, the atmosphere 
•which enfilades the frozen regions of the 
north pole, is a friendly temperate zone. 

Chevreau. This is absolutely incom- 
prehensible ! ! 

l4 



152 



Aferville. Life vegetates in those re* 
gions. But in this new, dismal world of 

yours — 

Chevreau. Dismal? You amaze me, 

Merville ! 

Merville. Even so it is! Every inno- 
vation in our mundane system would be a 
tremendous evil, if, fortunately for us, it 
were not absolutely impracticable. But 
bow should fancy discern impossibilities, 
which are only apprehended by reason ? 
She uniformly hovers on her airy pinions 
over the external surface of things, wholly 
regardless about their internal properties 
and indissoluble concatenations. This sor- 
ceress combines and decomposes her mate- 
rials after the same arbitrary manner. She 
rears a fabric of worlds at a venture, with- 
out any providential design, and then sub- 
stitutes her flimsy, visionary conception, 
as though it were an unrivalled masterpiece 
of contrivance, in the room of a Creation, 
planned and executed by the unerring hand 
of infinite wisdom, wherein all the several 
links are so wonderfully connected and 
wound up together. 



153 



She transplants all the prolific energies of a 
temperate zone into the frozen regions of the 
north pole,making some allowance perchance 
for a i#ore rigorous cold, or for a longer du- 
ration of winter, but by no means including 
in her estimate the loss of all the beauties of 
spring, of all the blessings of autumn, or 
of all those inestimable benefits, derived 
from intellectual culture and refinement. 

In this manner did the imagination of 
Theresa operate, and thus it fares with 
yours, Chevreau ! 

By an analogous process, your own fancy 
will doubtless leave the whole fabric of 
human nature entire and undemolished, 
will suffer the most affectionate and endear- 
ing bonds of society to remain indissoluble, 
will leave the substance of all terrestrial 
joys undiminished : whereas the former 
cannot possibly be consolidated, or the 
latter blossom and flourish, if their condi- 
tional postulatum be removed, if death be 
proscribed from the face of the Creation ; 
death, which is the supreme benefactor of 
mankind. 

Chevreau. Death ? You amaze me ! 



Merville. Death, I say, confers bene- 
fits upon all mankind, and lias conferred the 
most signal benefits upon you in particular. 

Chevreau. In what instance? I beseech 
you ! 

Merville. In your worthy parents : in 
your affectionate spouse, in your amiable 
child . 

Chevreau. Then you ought to abhor 
and despise me ; for I am senseless and 
devoid of gratitude for all these benefits. 
And yet they are doubtless engraven upon 
my heart ! 

Merville. No, Chevreau ! Your heart 
rejects them. They cannot be felt by our 
hearts ; they can only be apprehended by 
our reason. 

Chevreau. In what manner, I beseech 
you ? 

Merville*. I have only to create a terres- 



* In order to convey to the English reader a clear 
conception of Merville's reasoning, it may perhaps not be 
arrnss, to collect in one genera! prospectus, the promi- 
nent features of his argument. If death (he argues; be 
proscribed from the face of the Creation, and con.e- 
quentiy if man be made immortal, then only one alter- 



155 



trial paradise "whence death is proscribed 
for ever. Farther, I will suppose this para- 
dise of my Creation were peopled with hu- 

native remains. Man must either possess those ener- 
gies of propagation and procreation with which he is 
endowed at present, or he must be deprived of these 
energies. If immortal man should retain his present 
energies of propagation, then this world would presently 
be overstocked with inhabitants, and be over-run with 
all those evils consequent upon such an event. In order 
to remedy this calamity, you must therefore deprive him 
of his faculty of procreation. But now contemplate the 
dreadful consequences of this measure which you are 
compelled to adopt ! In the first place, you destroy all 
the affectionate bonds of consanguinity, all the joys of 
connubial life. There would be no marriages, of course 
there would be no fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, 
wives, in short, no relations whatsoever. Now the fa- 
bric of society is reared upon domestic alliances, and 
relationships. Consequently the fabric of society would 
be demolished. But all the bright catalogue of moral 
virtues, of social virtues, of Arts and Sciences, and all 
those refined pleasures derived from thence, are grounded 
upon the fabric of society. Consequently all the super- 
lative blessings would be involved in one general ruin, 
in one common destiny. This tremendous train of evils 
and calamities is brought upon mankind by one absurd 
hypothesis, by the single supposition that death were 
proscribed from the face of Nature, and that man were 
made immortal, — Translator. 



156 



man beings. But allow me to pause! Did 
I say human beings ? This is a salto mor- 
tale. I have not created them yet. What 
rational conception do I form of these hu- 
man beings ? Of what figure or com- 
plexion are they ? They are neither infants, 
boys, striplings, men, nor veterans; they 
have no mortal bodies, are endued with no 
mortal capacities of soul, with no mortal 
energies of will : they are airy phantoms, 
fluttering in the atmosphere, unsubstan- 
tial forms, a mere chimsera of the brain.- — 
But be it so I — My fancy is also a sorce- 
ress, and can dream ; she has the faculty 
of sporting with flimsy cobwebs as with 
substance and reality : let us therefore con- 
clude that these human beings exist. But 
our task is not pei formed yet. Existence 
is barely half the business of a Creator. I 
must make this existence sr.sceptible of bliss, 
of joys, and high flown raptures. 

But what modification of bliss shall I 
bestow upon the immortal man of my Cre- 
ation, that lie may not spontaneously (but 
unfortunately to no purpose) call upon 
death to dissolve his being ? 



157 



Those joys whereby I have been su- 
premely blest, are absolutely inadmissible, 
and repugnant to his nature. Allow me 
to pause, and explore my former life ! With 
what pious rapture did my bosom heave as 
a boy, in my childlike attachment to a wor- 
thy father, to an affectionate mother ! How 
long did I enjoy the supreme delight of 
clasping a beloved sister to my bosom, 
during a number of years, of greeting- my 
worthy brothers with a cordial welcome, 
when they honoured me with their visit, 
and (whilst we communed together in the 
evening in social converse) of refreshing 
my memory with the recollection of our in- 
fancy ? But this creature of my imagina- 
tion ! How truly deplorable is his destiny ! 
He stands forlorn and desolate in the midst 
of the Creation ! He is never welcomed with 
the cordial salutation of " brother," or 
u son." He is cruelly despoiled of the 
most valuable part of his nature, of the 
most endearing, the most sacred bonds! 
Nay, even the passion of love itself! — what 
attachments, I beseech you, can this noble 
passion create for him ? 



158 



Glowing with the fires of youth, and per- 
sonating the character of a husband, and 
of a father ; what ecstatic raptures did I 
not feel, when I beheld the smiles of my 
consort, when I returned her cordial em- 
braces, and the fond caresses of my chil- 
dren ! They were ravished from me ! I have 
bewailed their death, but 1 dwell with un- 
speakable delight upon their memory. In 
my old age, 1 would not exchange this dear 
recollection for all the treasures of the earth. 

But our man, stamped with the image of 
immortality, is in this respect a forlorn de- 
solate animal. No mistress smiles upon him 
with sweet complacency ; no affectionate 
wife clings around his neck ; no blooming 
progeny of sons and daughters, exhilarate 
his spirits with their wanton gambols. He 
is a sullen, morose anchorite, a senseless 
and ferocious savage. 

Now, Chevreau, shall I substantiate my 
argument, and produce my proofs ? 

Chevreau. I already anticipate them, 
from the tenour of your discourse. You 
dread a surplus in the population of the 
habitable globe. 



159 



Merrill e . XJni oubtedly . 

Chevreau In order to remedy this evil 5 
you substitute the abstract idea of popula- 
tion without propagation ; one uniform sta- 
tionary mode of existence, without any in- 
crease or diminution. 

Merville* Could I do otherwise ? True 
it is, I actually destroy the nature of man, 
and all his relations to external objects* 
But can you suggest a better remedy ? 

Chevreau. How should I ? I am no 
Omnipotent Creator. I cannot delineate 
the outlines, neither can 1 rear the fabric of 
a mundane system. 

Mermlle. But you are a man, and you 
may discriminate between what is possible 
and what is impossible. Only resolve me 
one single question : Would you transplant 
all the blessings which you now enjoy into 
this new world of your own creation ? 
Would you preserve indissoluble those va- 
luable, endearing ties, whereby you were 
attached to your parents, to Theresa, and 
to your Charles ? Or speak out boldly, and 
confess that you think like Theresa, when 
she was desirous to elude the dreadful phe- 



160 



nomena of thunder and lightning along 
with her beloved consort. Do you imagine 
that these endearing bonds ought never to 
exist, merely that they might never be dis- 
solved or snapt asunder ? 

Chevreau. Alas! Merville! 

Merville. Do they actually exist ? then 
their dissolution is unavoidable. They de- 
rived their origin from death, from the 
principle of decay and corruption. 

Chevreau. But why should their dis- 
solution be so premature, so cruel and 
dreadful ? 

Merville. When the operations of Na- 
ture are not counteracted, this dissolution 
is accomplished by a gradual, gentle, and 
imperceptible decay. Longevity and a 
tardy dissolution are fundamental princi- 
ples in the original scheme of human life. 
Nevertheless, I will readily admit, that 
by a combination of countless causes, the 
original constitution of our nature has been 
already impaired and disorganized, perhaps 
through a scries of generations. I will 
also admit that these causes, being derived 
from the natural order and general scheme 



161 



of things, may furnish us with a plea for 
making fresh complaints. But remove, if 

you please, or annihilate these causes. This 
measure will be accompanied with a train 
of evils more lamentable and destructive 
than the abolition of death itself. But, 
Chevreau, let us now return from this di- 
gression to 3'Oiir original complaint, which 
did not affect a premature or dreadful 
mode of death, but only the general and 
abstract idea. Upon -this commanding 
eminence of universality whither, your 
hand has conducted nie, are the meridian 
splendours of daylight ; obscurity prevails 
in the lower regions of subordinate classifi- 
cations* and opaque darkness hovers over 
the unfathomable abyss of individuality* 
Our conceptions are bewildered amidst the 
promiscuous throngs of immolated victims,, 
and the multifarious aspect of indiscri- 
minate slaughter. Our intellectual eye can 
only inspect the justice, benevolence and 
wisdom of universal laws, with an accu- 
rate, distinct survey. We have just dis- 
covered, that the law of procreation is 
engrafted upon the fundamental law of 
death ; that a gradual propagation is reti- 

M 



162 



dered practicable by a gradual diminution 
of the species. 

In this manner is my assertion demon- 
strated ; " that death is the greatest bene- 
factor of mankind." 

For he alone engenders love, the peren- 
nial fountain of onr joys and of our moral 
excellence : it is he alone who consolidates 
the bonds of domestic associations and the 
supreme commmunion of civil society, m ho 
with one comprehensive grasp connects all 
these individual tics in one indissoluble 
knot. lie is the source of all moral and 
intellectual excellence, moreover of all ci- 
vilization, derived from social converse, 
from Science and Art ; of all the gentle, 
all the humane virtues. 

Confess, therefore, how deplorable each 
reformation of nature must be, could it be 
accomplished by human agency. Acknow- 
ledge the impiety and criminality of our 
arrogance, when we venture to put our 
circumscribed powers of intelligence in 
competition with the inexhauxtible stores 
of infinite wisdom. We commence with a 
laudable resolution to build, but eventually 
we subvert and demolish. We desire to per- 



163 

pctuate existence, and we despoil it of its 

most glorious attributes. We arm ourselves 
•with a fury more fell than ever raged in 
the bosom of malevolence, and prosecute 
the work of destruction to the first prin- 
ciple of generation, even to that supreme 
law, whence all of us derive life and all 
4he joys of existence. I shall not mention 
a countless number of other inconsistencies, 
but merely suggest to you one single ques- 
tion: whether we Ought not to blush like 
our amiable friend, ought not to return to 
our ancient paradise, and for the sake of 
those countless gratifications it offers, whe- 
ther we ought not patiently to endure the 
temporary combustion of jarring elements ?. 

Without any rejoinder, Chevreau stood 
musing, with Iris eyes imiiioveably fixed 
on the ground : his reason appeared tho- 
roughly convinced, but his brow was still 
ruffled with a frown of care. 

Merville now discovered, that he had em- 
ployed improper caustics to probe and he*d 
the wound of his friend : that the ulcers of 
an afflicted soul are not cured by logical 
arguments, but by sensible impressions ; 



by sensation and not by meditation : lie 
already revolved a plan in his mind, to 
dissipate the sudden -melancholy of his 
friend in a more effectual manner. In the 
mean time the tempest had subsided, and 
the clouds had discharged their -watery 
stores : Chevreau, weary of a conversation 
which made his wounds bleed afresh, took 
his departure for town somewhat abruptly ; 
insomuch, that the veteran had scarcely 
time to acquaint him that he would em- 
brace his first opportunity of leisure in 
order to request a favour, the gratification 
of which nearly concerned his happiness. 
The only reply he received was a gentle 
squeeze and a melancholy smile. 

Mcrville's project was grounded upon the 
effluent circumstances of Chevreau, and 
upon the benevolent dispositions of his 
mind. How supremely blest might not 
my friend be (said he within himself), by 
that charitable benevolence with which he 
is accustomed to dry up the tears of afflic- 
tion ; were Ins charities not dispensed by 
a set of interlopers ; could he but witness 
himself the gratitude of his clients, and 



165 



did not barely a faint echo of their grateful 
acknowledgments resound in his ears ! 1 

How supremely blest would he be, could 
he but behold himself, returning smiles illu- 
mine the humid eyes and pallid cheeks of 
these sons of adversity ! 

The opulent forego the fair recompense 
of their humanity, sometimes by false de- 
licacy, and sometimes by indiscreet gene- 
rosity. Perchance the benevolent dispo- 
sition of my friend may prove the happy 
instrument of reconciling him with exist- 
ence. Out he must himself behold the ob- 
jects of his charity, his sympathy must be 
awakened, and his- affections aroused ! But 
lest any false shame might induce him to 
withdraw, lest any unhappy suspicions of 
artilicial sympathy might embitter his cup 
of joy, the first object of his charity must be 
a child, the immaculate image of nature and 
of innocence, one who is fatherless, and 
Mho is already prepared to Sad a tender 
and affectionate parent in Chevreau. 

" You have often heard me mention 
(said Mervillc, during his subsequent in- 
terview with Cbevreau), "the name of a bo* 
% 3 



166 



sorn friend, whom I cherished -with more 
affection than even my own brothers, and 
who perished in the disasterous combat at 
Malplaquet. Whilst he was expiring he 
appointed me guardian to his only son, 
whom (as you know from my own com- 
munications) I have uniformly treated as 
my own child; whom I have provided with 
cash, with a wife, and with employment. 
Judge then, what must have been my sen- 
sations, when, but a few weeks ago, I re- 
ceived these lines from his spouse, the very 
last Vi Inch the unhappy man could write!— " 
"How!" said Chevreau, with sensible 
emotion — u Has he shared the fate of his 
lather?" 

" Peruse those lines !" resumed Merville y 
(turning aside in order to conceal a tear 
which gushed forth involuntarily); u he de- 
sires me to be unto his son what I hereto- 
fore was to him ; but what moral obliga- 
tions, 1 beseech you, is a poor, helpless 
veteran able to fulfil, who is tottering upon 
the brink of. the grave ? If this were simply 
an obligation to support an unbefriended 
orphan, who will; in all likelihood, soon 



16T 



lose his poor infirm mother, then, methinks, 
1 know a generous friend* to whom' I could 
apply." — (Here Chevreau compressed the 
hand of his friend with an affectionate 
squeeze). 

"But," resumed Merville, " this is an ob- 
lation of a much more important nature. 
This forlorn orphan requires some paternal 
friend, who would cherish him with all 
the tenderness of a father, who would de- 
dicate some portion of his time to the cul- 
ture of Iiis mind, to the improvement of 
his morals, and to make a solid provision 
for his fortunes. Chevreau ! You behold 
my emotion and my sorrow. I know none 
besides yourself, upon whom I could de- 
volve these heavy obligations which op- 
press me. You are young, rich, and vir- 
tuous. Do you wish to administer conso- 
lation to my declining age? Do you de- 
sire to see Merville depart in peace ? But 
Iiow can I be so inconsiderate as to chal- 
lenge your generosity for one who is a 
stranger to you ?" 

Upon uttering this ejaculation, Merville 
hastily withdrew, and left Chevreaiv strug- 
k4 



168 



gling with contending passions, with the 
opposite sentiments of friendship and of 
his decided antipathy to cement any fresh 
connexions with mankind, an antipathy 
which he endeavoured to exculpate by 
pleading his own incapacity. 

Merville presently returned (somewhat 
too soon for Chevreau), leading by the hand 
a charming engaging boy, apparelled in a 
suit of mourning. 

" Behold, Charles J" said he, " your gene- 
rous benefactor, whom I ha ve selected to be 
your second father, whom you must im- 
plore to assume this character, whom you 
must solemnly promise to revere with affec- 
tion, and to remunerate his paternal cares 
with cheerful obedience and filial respect/' 

Chevreau was staggered at the name of 
Charles, and seated himself in a chair : in- 
somuch, that the boy, who advanced to- 
wards him with an ingenuous frankness, 
hastily returned to Merville, somewhat 
abashed. But being prevailed upon by 
the friendly entreaties of the veteran, he 
advanced again towards Chevreau (whose 
eyes were suffused in tears), and with-mov- 



169 

fng tenderness, besought him not to -weep, 
suffered him to take him upon his lap,, 
threw his little arms around his neck, and 
began to sob himself. From that very in- 
stant, a secret connexion, and indissoluble 
bond of friendship was formed between 
Chevreau and the boy. 

It was natural, that this acquaintance 
with the child should subsequently beget 
an acquaintance with the mother, who 
now recovered slowly from her illness, or 
rather from her affliction. R was also na- 
tural that two persons (in whose bosom this 
pledge of their love awakened the most 
tender recollections) should mingle their 
sighs and tears together, should imbibe a 
mutual respect for each other, and should 
become more familiarly acquainted. It 
would be superfluous to say what the final 
result of this was, to a reader of sensibility, 
who is acquainted with the human heart, 
being conscious that he likewise possesses a 
feeling heart within his own bosom. 



170 



DIALOGUE 

ON THE 

DREAD OF A PROBABLE RELAPSE INTO 
SUPERSTITION. 

IN AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 



You h&ve deservedly sustained a heavy 
loss, my dear friend, by your abrupt de- 
parture from our convivial circle last night, 
when, notwithstanding the entreaties of our 
buxom and amiable landlady, you would 
not suffer yourself to be prevailed upon to 
stay supper. Whilst you (for aught 1 
know), were poring over the musty pages 
of some Gothic writer of the fourteenth 
century, or perhaps, at the imminent ha- 
zard of your eye-sight, were endeavouring 
to decypher the illegible characters of some 
precious fragment of antiquity ; the re- 
mainder of the company were highly gra- 



171 



tified by the amusing spectacle of a literary 
combat, between. Pyrrlio, that doughty 
sceptic, and Diogenes, that staunch dog- 
matist. You may possibly imagine that 
the latter was presently vanquished by the 
superior acuteness of his rival ; but 1 can 
assure you, that Pyrrho was pushed to 
great straits, and must ultimately have 
suffered a signal defeat, on account of the 
bold imagery and fascinating eloquence of 
his antagonist, had not Hippias oppor- 
tunely reinforced him with fresh arguments, 
which enabled him to make an honourable 
retreat. 

Diogenes (that arch caviller, always in 
a humour to wield the cestus of contro- 
versy), introduced the conversation by a 
plausible encomium upon Sceptical Philo- 
sophy, and Pyrrho (to whom he was per- 
sonally unknown) swallowed with avidity 
all the savoury things that were said in fa- 
vour of his own system, without suspect- 
ing that they would be accompanied with 
a bitter sauce and hard digestion. u Scepti- 
cal Philosophy," said Diogenes, « is the ul- 
timate go^l where the researches of a pro- 



172 

found and inquisitive speculator must in- 
fallibly terminate (for Diogenes, you know, 
is always positive and decided). It is the 
supreme boundary of human intelligence, 
the meridian altitude of human knowledge. " 

Several of the company filed their objec- 
tions against him; but with the consum- 
mate art of a rhetorician, Diogenes sought 
to illustrate his argument; cited the exam- 
ple of Greece, a nation, whose godlike ge- 
nius had been so eminently conspicuous in 
every branch of literature, and demon- 
strated that all her academical sects, ulti- 
mately embraced the doctrines of Sceptical 
Philosophy, lie likewise mustered up in 
a luminous detail, the metaphysicians 
amongst the most enlightened nations of 
modern times, and here he also discovered 
that the most recent, and of course (con- 
formably to his hypothesis), the most acute 
and intelligent philosophers, either inclined 
towards scepticism, or made no scruple of 
openly professing their attachment to its 
principles. In short, the whole tcnour of 
bis discourse was calculated to enkindle 
transports of enthusiasm in the breast of 



Pyrrho, who M never once suspected that 
he could possibly form an acquaintance 
With such a profound philosopher in such 
an illiterate and un philosophical town. 

Mutual compliments and assurances of 
friendship were interchanged between them, 
nay, our hostess inwardly rejoiced and con- 
gratulated herself upon her good fortune, in . 
having been instrumental towards cement- 
ing a friendship between two persons, 
whose dispositions appeared to be so friend- 
ly and congenial : when suddenly, to the 
no small astonishment of Pyrrho, the tables 
■were turned, and Diogenes, with a rueful 
countenance, began to lament the deplor- 
able fate of the present age, which was now 
become so marvellously enlightened, that 
one might venture, with certainty, to pre- 
sage a total eclipse. He lamented, more- 
over, the misfortune of those choice spi- 
rits, who had ascended the pinnacle of 
human intelligence, because, in those lofty 
regions., the atmosphere was not only bar- 
ren of knowledge, but also so bleak as to 
conceal the human heart. Both these as- 
sertions were strongly combated by the 



■'whole company 5 more especially the idea 
of an approaching eclipse: but Diogenes 
•obstinately persisted in declaring, that after 
the luminous asra of scepticism, a total 
eclipse, and the opaque gloom of supersti- 
tion, with ail its tremendous evils, were un- 
avoidable. Some of us objected to tl ie ex* 
pressiou, "unavoidable," and supported 
Che possibility of an alternative. I likewise 
espoused this side of the question, being 
of opinion, that I had lived long enough 
in the world to know that nothing was im- 
possible, much less unavoidable. Some -of 
,us even ventured to question the possibility 
of such a catastrophe, that an age like ours 
-could ever degenerate into absolute barba- 
rism, and no one w as a more zealous advo- 
cate for this opinion than Pyrrho himself, 
notwithstanding his sceptical principles. 

u I marvel," said Diogenes, " that you 
should be so forward to controvert my argu- 
ment: for I have been assured by Ilippias 
(one of the present company), a man upon 
whose veracity I can defend, that, during 
a late conversation concerning the intrinsic 
Excellence of intellectual refinement, you 



175 

affirmed, that corporeal >nd intellectual 
light were perfectly analogous, and hence 
you concluded, that whereas- the former 
was universally cherished and beloved by 
all, with the single exception of criminals 
and men of weak organs : the latter must 
likewise be highly prized by every one, 
ideots and mountebanks only excepted. 

« Conformably to this analogy established 
by yourself between corporeal and intellec- 
tual light, you must likewise acknowledge, 
that when light is extremely condensated 
(in which case the transparency of the at- 
mosphere, both corporeal and intellectual, 
is ratified to the highest degree) a most 
dreadful decomposition of the luminous 
particles is approaching." 

Decomposition was a term with which 
Fyrrho did not associate a clear concep- 
tion (which was, in all likelihood, owing 
to the circumstance of his having some- 
what neglected other sciences, on account 
of his diligent study of philosophy) ; he 
therefore requested some farther explana- 
tion. 

" Meteorology instructs us," resumed the 



176 



erator, u that when the sun rises with un- 
clouded majesty in the East, this pheno- 
menon prognosticates a gloomy evening : 
that when the heavens are apparently dis- 
robed of mists, and enlightened to a super- 
lative degree, the atmosphere is actually 
impregnated with the germs of terror and 
desolation, with rain, hail, storms, torna- 
does, thunder and lightning* 

Moreover, it is perfectly consentaneous 
with that analogy subsisting between cor- 
poreal and intellectual light (in which par- 
ticular we are both agreed), that to the lu- 
minous, unsullied blaze of scepticism, a 
dismal night will succeed, teeming with 
all the absurdity and terrific monsters of 
superstition.'' 

Here Pyrrlio interrupted his doughty 
antagonist, and reminded him on the good 
old adage (which warns us not to digress 
from the main subject of comparison), to 
w r it, that, abstractedly considered, all com- 
parisons are lame. 

But Diogenes, far from being staggered 
at this objection, with an elastic spring 
suddenly bolted over it ; and cited again 



177 



the example of the Greeks, which (he af- 
firmed) was a flaming torch placed before 
our eyes, diffusing light over every depart- 
ment of literature. 

He expatiated at large upon the revolu- 
tion which happened in Greece, subse- 
quently to that sera, when all the acade- 
mical sects were incorporated together in 
the single school of Sceptical Philosophy, 
demonstrating, how, as the minds of the 
sophists were gradually impoverished, and 
their stock of knowledge diminished, the 
illiterate rabble crammed their unfurnished 
heads with a heterogeneous mass of new 
ideas ; so that, whilst the former w£re 
famished with want, the latter were rioting 
in affluence, until finally, philosophy her- 
self was volatilized into frothy declamation 
and the art of idle disputation, insomuch 
that she was branded with ignominious 
scorn, whilst superstition, rearing aloft 
her gigantic head, accelerated the golden 
age of astrologers, of fortune-tellers, and 
necromancers ; moreover, how, at that 
period all minds were furnished with a 
treasury of mysteries, <?f miracles an4 pro- 



digies, so that an individual would haye 
been regarded in the light of an ideot, if 
lie did not subscribe to the creed of Dae- 
mons, of spiritual apparitions, or of super- 
natural agents. 

Here our modest, unassuming Hippias 
interposed, and addressing Diogenes, said : 
" If this was the case in ancient days, 
which I will not attempt to disprove — 

" Then/' resumed Diogenes, u it will 
ever remain unchangeably the same at all 
limes— neither can these phenomena assume 
any other shape, conformably to their own 
nature." 

u Give me leave to suggest some doubts 
on that head," rejoined Hippias. " Was 
there not a mighty confluence of causes, 
coeval with that deplorable period (not 
simply in Greece, but likewise throughout 
the Roman empire) which might serve to 
elucidate as fully, nay, perhaps more satis- 
factorily, this melancholy catastrophe, we 
are now speaking of? 

•* Consider how powerfully the gradual 
decay of all sublime, intellectual energies 
(arising from profligate manners and brutal 



179 



sensuality), might co-operate; how pow- 
erfully those continual pangs of terror, 
under a succession of bloody despots, and 
under the most unstable government upon 
earth ; lastly, how powerfully the abject 
misery of the subject, which gradually 
became more intolerable, insomuch, that 
along with the inclination, the capacity of 
thought must also be extinct." 

" Besides," subjoined Pyrrho, " reflect 
moreover, that, as far as we can trace the 
annals of mankind, only one solitary case 
has occurred, when exalted refinement and 
abject superstition were so nearly associated 
together. Without calling your attention 
to° a variety of probable contingencies 
which might have produced this phenome- 
non, I need only ask, what inference can 
you draw from one solitary instance ? 

" I may inquire, moreover, if in one 
single instance, two phenomena happen to 
succeed each other ; whether we are war- 
ranted to conclude that they must be ne- 
cessarily connected together as cause aud 
effect?" 

u What, only in one single instance l" 
n2 



180 



exclaimed Diogenes, surveying the whole 
company with an affected air of surprize. 
<; Can you, gentlemen, patiently suffer such 
an assertion to escape without contradic- 
tion ? Has truth no champion amongst us 
to vindicate her rights, or to exalt his 
voice ? Or are we such entire strangers in 
Israel, as not to know what passes now-a- 
days before our eyes ? Is this the only so- 
litary instance when superstition trod upon 
the heels of scepticism ? No sooner did she 
hear the clamorous voice of her precursor, 
than she ventured to step forth (before our 
eyes) from the wretched hovels of the illi- 
terate multitude, wherein she had sheltered 
herself in times of distress and persecution. 
Before our eyes she has laid aside her 
natural antipathy to the broad glare of 
day-light, in order to knock for admit- 
tance at the threshold of the sons of luxury; 
nay, she has actually obtained access with- 
out much ceremony or impediment; now 
and then, perchance, she may have bolted 
through a back door in the twilight, but 
loo frequently she was admitted at noon- 
day without any reserve or dissimulation > ,? 



181 

Hereupon certain names were handed 
about the company in low whispers ; nay, 
even Hippias himself acknowledged, that 
some faint glimmerings began to dawn upon 
bis mind of a secret connection between 
the aforesaid cause and its effect, which 
still required an explanation. " But/' said 
he, " you ought to elucidate this connec- 
tion more fully ; you ought to dissipate 
our scruples, whether this might not hap- 
pen through the agency of a blind chanced 
Whether the coincidence of these pheno- 
mena (as frequently happens) be not meiely 
fortuitous, or whether they actually have 
some internal connection, insomuch that 
the one infallibly produces the other |" 

" Do you really imagine," cried Dio- 
genes, " that 1 shall hesitate to accept 
your challenge ? Ox that I shall find the 
least difficulty in performing all your sti- 
pulated conditions in the most satisfactory 
manner ? 

" It will not require any abstruse or pro- 
found science, but simply a knowledge of 
human nature, such as any ordinary indi- 
vidual (otherwise much less informed than 
N 3 



182 



the respectable company I Lave now thq 
honour to address) may be presumed to 
possess. I flatter myself that I shall be 
able to make it as clear as day-light, that 
scepticism militates against refinement, nay 
(if 1 may employ this allusion), that it 
is the seedsman, who scatters abroad the 
seed of Superstition, which, alas ! finds a soil 
so congenial, so well prepared and manured 
in our hearts. 

u First of all, I cannot avoid expressing* 
a cordial and devout wish, that no porten- ! 
tous tree, fraught with deadly poisofi, may 
vegetate again, such as heretofore reared 
aloft its tremendous head at Rome, bein^ 
rooted in hell, spreading its branches over 
the. surface of Europe, and choking the 
growth of all the fair flowers of knowledge.' 7 
Here Hippias shrugged up his shoulders 
with a significant glance, as if he was pre- 
paring to detect the origin of that barba- 
rism, prevalent in the middle, ages, and of 
the exorbitant authority exercised by the 
Roman Pontiff, by investigating the annals 
of history: nay, Pyrrho himself already 
began to make some animadversions, by 



183 



wayofrefutatkm-but both of them po- 
litely waved their objections for the present, 
because now, for the first time, our am, 
able hostess condescended to jour m the 
conversation. ^ . 1 

« Your prophetic warnings, bir, said 
she (accosting Diogenes) « begin to assume 
a serious and alarming aspect, and what 
vou have advanced has already excited 
my curiosity so much, that 1 must solicit 
the indulgence of the company, and re- 
quest one of the gentlemen to enlighten my 
France, concerning the real essence of 
that formidable evil, which you were 
pleased to designate by the appellation ot 

scepticism." . 

Pvrrho, with the greatest alacrity, im- 
mediately offered to give her the satisfac- 
tion required, assuring her ladyship be- 
forehand, that shewould not find any thin- 
so very alarming in this bugbear as she 
supposed: but his explanation was so ob- 
scure and pedantic, so highly seasoned 
V itha scholastic phraseology, thathe might 
just as well have conversed with the lady 
iu the Sanscrit language. 

n 4 



184 

Hereupon Diogenes requested her per- 
mission to communicate a more adequate 
conception of this abstract idea, by dress- 
ing it up in a sensible form, through the 
vehicle of an appropriate simile. 

" Look ye, Madam," said he, « a Seep- 
tic is first of all, a man like ourselves. He 
distinguishes external objects by the light 
of the senses ; he discerns those truths which 
reason inculcates by the bright torch of 
reason ; moreover, we cannot deny that he 
not only possesses as large a portion of good 
sense as his neighbours, but also, on sun- 
dry occasions, a much more acute and 
subtle apprehension ; but unfortunately, all 
of a sudden, he is strangely prepossessed 
with a vain conceit of identifying the truth 
and reality of what he sees. He then begins 
to shut his eyes upon all external objects, 
and looks inwardly for that intellectual 
light which was originally designed only 
to assist his organs of sight. There he 
looks so long and with *uch stedfast con- 
templation, that at length both his eyes 
begin to flare, and swim with a dreadful 



185 



suffusion of liglit — insomuch that when he 
recollects himself and turns about, he no 
longer beholds any external objects, save 
only a glorious stream of light, of simple 
unsullied light— and now, Madam, your 
Sceptic is perfect, and you may form a to- 
lerable notion of his essence. 

The strange medley of drollery and of 
good sense compounded together in this ex- 
planation, excited the merriment of the 
whole company, and nobody laughed more 
heartily than the lady, who found some 
difficulty in persuading herself that one 
scruple of truth could enter into the com- 
position of a joke. 

Pyrrho had hitherto discovered an ad- 
mirable equanimity, but he was now unfor- 
tunately disconcerted, and although he 
made uncommon efforts to swallow that bit- 
ter pill, and to digest his spleen (that he 
might not become the laughing stock of the 
company), his good humour nevertheless 
deserted him, and Diogenes, of course, was 
left at liberty to discharge the whole artil- 
lery of his wit, and to deal out with a libe- 
ral hand, the counterfeit manufacture of a 



186 



fertile imagination, as the genuine, unadul- 
terated coin of reason. 

" I need only inquire," resumed Diogenes, 
" whether a blind noodle like our sceptic, be 
not a poor forlorn animal, or whether it be 
possible for him to guard against all those 
traps or those blind pitfalls, whereby Su- 
perstition seeks to ensnare mankind ? 

" But I will cheerfully dismiss my former 
simile for the present, out of deference to- 
wards the opinions of my friend Hippias, 
who, as I know, is by no means partial to 
this sort of imagery in philosophical in- 
quiries." 

u Undoubtedly, 9 ' rejoined Hippias, cc be- 
cause he suspects that it rather serves to 
perplex than to enlighten our notions, and 
because he imagines that he has on sundry 
occasions found you somewhat deficient in 
point of argument*" 

That cannot possibly be the case at 
present," replied Diogenes. u I will now 
venture to ask you roundly, in plain, in- 
telligible language, whether, in your opi- 
nion, the generality of mankind does not 
consist in men incapable of thought or re- 



187 

flection, who are more strongly biassed by 
the impulse of their senses than by reason, 
and who cannot, of themselves, frame any 
rational theory of just notions ? Moreover, 
whether they do not greatly surpass in 
number that chosen band of individuals 
who think and act according to the dic- 
tates of their reason ? Farther, whether the 
major part of that light, which has en- 
lightened humanity, instead of being the 
direct, unsullied blaze of sunshine, has not 
rather been the pale reflected glimmerings 
of the moon ? In short, a light, which 
cither instantly vanishes away, or like unto 
a certain mineral, continues to shine for a 
season, until its fountain head be either 
drained or withdrawn ? Whether that foun- 
tain head, which furnishes men of weak in- 
tellects w ith a supply of light, be any other 
than the knowledge of those few intelligent 
individuals, who, by vigorous exertions of 
their own intellectual energies, have ac- 
quired a larger stock of knowledge, and 
consequently, wliether these superior minds 
can lose their own light without extinguish- 



188 



ing the lights of the vulgar multitude and 
involving them in opaque darkness ?" 

Our hostess, who had been wonderfully 
delighted with the definition of a Sceptic, 
and had ever since sided with Diogenes, 
returned a favourable answer to all these 
questions, and the remainder of the com- 
pany being complaisant enough to remain 
silent, I was unwilling to be the only per- 
son who transgressed the rules of decorum, 
or was ambitious to personate the character 
of a wise man. I therefore prudently sup- 
pressed a question, which involuntarily 
suggested itself to my mind : to wit, whe- 
ther, after the rays of light were universally 
diffused, and the minds of men more gene- 
rally enlightened, mankind could still be 
subjected to the controul of some few supe- 
rior minds, as if they were in their original 
state of savage ignorance and barbarism ? 

" You now clearly perceive, gentlemen," 
pursued Diogenes, " the only remedy or al- 
ternative to preserve intellectual light upon 
earth, or to prevent the approach of opaque 
darkness, Men of superior minds must be 



189 



tenacious of those enlightened opinions 
they have once embraced. They must 
scrupulously adhere to their received 
maxims, and to their inveterate animosity 
against Superstition. 

" But do you conceive it possible/' cried 
Pyrrho, u that when once such enlightened 
opinions and such an animosity are im- 
planted in the soul M 

" How indissolubly implanted in the 
soul!" exclaimed Diogenes, abruptly in- 
terrupting him : 66 1 regard it as morally im- 
possible that any principles should be in- 
dissolubly implanted in the human soul 
"which are repugnant to its nature. It is 
this self-same nature that 1 was going to 
unfold to you, in order to demonstrate how 
repugnant it is to an obstinate perseverance 
in sceptical doctrines. 

M Gentlemen, let us now contemplate 
the situation to which a philosopher has 
reduced himself, when, by intense study, 
his mind has soared aloft to the regions of 
Scepticism (which I still solemnly confess 
to b : the most sublime pinnacle of intellec- 
tual refinement) ; let us consider whether 



190 



lie could possibly remain long in this situ- 
ation, even if he would, or whether lie 
would if he could? I mortally dread, I 
can assure you, that this terrestrial light, 
like the heavenly luminaries, will rise, blaze, 
and gain its ascendant, in order (after it 
has reached the zenith) to make its ap- 
proaches again towards the horizon, and ul- 
timately to disappear* 

" I challenge Pyrrho and the whole com- 
pany present to resolve me one single ques- 
tion : viz. Whether it be consentaneous with 
the nature of our soul to remain dormant 
in any condition whatsoever ; or whether 
(conformably to one of her fundamental in- 
stincts) she does not uniformly endeavour 
to advance and enlarge the sphere of her 
activity ?" 

This question being affirmed, Diogenes 
resumed his speech. 

" I ask, moreover, 5 ' said he, " whether 
an individual, who has already surmounted 
the extreme pinnacle of refinement, can make 
any farther progress? Or (being unable 
to advance, and repose being impracti- 
cable), whether he must not absolutely make 



191 



a retrograde motion ? "With regard to scep- 
ticism, absolute repose would be impossible 
on a twofold account, since it would be a 
repose on the prickly thorns of doubt and 
uncertainty, which preclude every idea of 
repose. 

" In short, our Sceptic must descend 
from his altitude either immediately or at 
some future period, whether lie will or not. 
But, whither (I ask) can he shape his 
course ?" 

" Surely," exclaimed his opponents, " he 
will not directly plunge headlong into the 
gulph of Superstition ?" 

u Unquestionably ! Most assuredly !' 5 
reiterated Diogenes. 

" You are either in jest," said Hippias^ 
" or else you make a salto mortale" 

" Excuse me, friend Hippias," resumed 
Diogenes. " It is no salto mortale^ it is a 
tremendous fall." 

" How so ?" cried Hippias. 

" Extremes, you know," replied Dio- 
genes, " are in close contact with each 
other." 



192 



a Now our Sceptic must either remain 
where he is (which I regard as morally 
impossible), or he must instantaneously 
plunge headlong into the abyss. 

" In order to render this more intelli- 
gible, I beseech you to attend to the man- 
ner in which our Sceptic ascends his alti- 
tude. For this purpose he employs a pro- 
gressive series of abstract ideas, which 
serve him in the room of a ladder, the seve- 
ral steps of which, as they mount upwards, 
gradually dwindle away, so that they even- 
tually become unsafe to touch, and unsure 
to stand on. Whenever he raises one of 
his legs, and gains a footing upon the step 
above him, with the other leg he kicks 
that beneath him all to pieces, insomuch 
that when he is, at length, arrived upon 
the summit and glances downwards, he 
beholds his whole ladder demolished, along 
"with all its steps. He has lost all his scien- 
tific acquisitions, and only knows this of a 
certainty, that he knows nothing." 

" This is a situation, truly whimsical !" 
exclaimed Hippias, laughing, and shaking 



193 



his head. u But why should your poor 
Sceptic be instantaneously hurled down the 
precipice with such an unmerciful fall ?** 

" Can it be otlierwise ?" cried Diogenes. 

66 That ladder, which aided his ascent, 
he has now lost, and what alternative is 
there left for him, but either to repose upon 
his thorny couch, or, being seized with a 
sudden vertigo (to which persons in such a 
situation are ordinarily subject), to reel 
backwards into the abyss without farther 
ceremony ? As to steady contemplation, it 
is now all over with that, and I see nothing 
left for him to do, but to believe." 

" Upon my soul!" exclaimed Pyrrho, 
not without some degree of asperity, u you 
have finely acquitted yourself of your pro- 
mise to discard all figurative language. 

" How, supposing we substitute another 
simile (in order to relieve yoi* from the 
hardship of compassionating the case of 
men, who, thank God ! have no occasion 
for your pity), and furnish our Sceptic with 
a pair of wings, that he may transport 
himself at once upon the eminence, with- 
out the fatigue and ceremony of climli 



194 

c< How so?" cried Diogenes. " Is t&ai 
supposition admissible ?" 

Pyrrho, without giving any direct answer, 
resumed his speech. 

" If, on this supposition, 1 ' said he, "the 
cold and barren regions of speculation 
should not be exactly suited to the humour 
of our Sceptic, then he might, with the 
same pinions which conveyed him hither, 
instantly wing his flight to other regions, 
where he would find a more pleasant abode 
and more space to range in, than he could 
possibly traverse." 

u Mighty well, upon my soul !" ex- 
claimed Diogenes. " But how, supposing 
he were actually imprisoned in these re- 
gions, the sinews o£ bis poor pinions being 
snapt asunder and unstrung, so as to ren- 
der them wholly unfit for future flights? 
You have now insensibly conducted me to 
that very point, towards which I was ad- 
vancing, viz. to that secret consciousness 
implanted in our hearts, which will never 
jiufFer us to stray from those fundamental 
principles of knowledge, from which a 
Sceptic is accustomed to wander in his 



flaring excursions — I mean, a knowledge 
of futurity, and of something beyond the 
reach of our senses. I take it for granted 
that we are all of us acquainted with a 
principle derived from a general knowledge 
of mankind, to wit, that our reason is by 
no means so totally independent of our 
hearts as we would fain persuade ourselves : 
that our opinions are oftentimes modelled 
by our sensations, and we need only be 
placed in certain situations which shall in- 
fluence our understandings, nay, even our 
moral sentiments, so powerfully, as we 
would scarcely conceive possible, if other- 
wise circumstanced. Perhaps you may re- 
quire an example to illustrate this fact* and 
I can presently furnish you with one." 

Hereupon two voices eagerly exclaimed, 
" O ! O !" This was no other than Pyrrho 
and our hostess, and each of them politely 
offered to yield the precedence to the other. 

The compliment being of course decided 
in favour of the hostess, she reiterated : 
u O, I entreat you, good Sir, to favour us 
with an example!" 

Pyrrho repeated the same exclamation^ 
og 



196 



in a tone of voice which provoked a gene-' 
ral smile. 

" Well then!' 1 pursued Diogenes, " Fi- 
gure to yourselves a man gifted with good 
sense, experience, and sound principles, 
but badly circumstanced with regard to 
temporalities: let us suppose him reduced 
to the unfortunate alternative of raising a 
sum of money in Order to support his credit 
and reputation. This man formerly had a 
friend in whom he could repose unbounded 
confidence, who flew to his succour upon 
any emergency, nay, who anticipated his 
distresses before he ventured to disclose 
them. Let us farther suppose, that this 
friend has involved himself in ruin and 
bankruptcy by hazardous speculations. To 
whom will he now apply for succour ? Will 
he make application to some obscene usurer, 
to some merciless blood-sucker, who lends 
money at an exorbitant interest? This 
would be a temporary subterfuge, evidently 
calculated to aggravate his calamity. But 
do we suppose that the unfortunate man 
will deliberate or regard it in this light i 
Will he not upon this pressing emergency 



197. 



be compelled to adopt a measure diametri- 
cally repugnant to his knowledge, to his 
experience and principles? Take, if you 
please, another example. Let us for a mo- 
ment attach credit to that palpable false- 
hood, with which we were once amused by 
the public journals ; that the French phy- 
sicians had, in the most candid and unequi- 
vocal terms, exposed the imposture and 
quackeries of their profession: would an 
unhappy patient, whose body is racked 
.with excruciating pains, on this account 
cease to implore medical aid ? Or, if an 
intelligent physician should withhold his 
advice, would he not fly for temporary re- 
lief to those infamous mountebanks, whom 
lie was accustomed to treat with derision ?" 

" I will readily admit," said Hippias, 
« that his mind will be strongly biassed to- 
wards such a measure ; but it is doubtful 
whether this bias or impulse of his mind 
will be realized by an overt act." 

« Most assuredly not," exclaimed Pyrrho, 
<c in men of a superior mind, and of a da- 
cided character ! V 

" But, perchance, in souls of a more 
o3 



198 



feeble frame," rejoined Diogenes, « f ra 
characters more ductile. I do not wish to be 
understood as speaking- generally, in every 
case : I only allude to this particular case, 
and affirm that such a conduct would be 
adopted by persons whose character and un- 
derstanding are by no means despicable.'* 
" How so!" said his two opponents: 
" Pray explain your meaning." 

" Pish!" exclaimed Diogenes: " I did 
bp* imagine that I should be called upon 
to illustrate ray examples, which I con- 
ceived to be perfectly clear and intelligible. 
But 1 will cheerfully comply with your 
request. The man of knowledge and ex- 
perience, whose credit and reputation are 
at stake, and who is compelled to devise 
some temporary means of deliverance ; the 
suffering patient, who with piteous moans 
implores medical aid to assuage his an- 
guish, are both express symbols of us all, 
who are frail, necessitous, and perishable 
beings, but nevertheless pant with an un- 
quenchable thirst after happiness and im- 
mortality. That disinterested friend, re- 
duced to beggary by his hazardous specu- 



199 

lations; the intelligent physician, who 
ridiculesand derides his ; profcssional science^ 
is that reason, which was heretofore our 
chearful helpmate, which inspired us with 
confidence, courage, and hope: the mer- 
ciless, obscene usurer, the derided mounte- 
bank, is Fancy with Superstition, that 
hideous monster of her womb : and the 
perfect analogy subsisting between these 
two cases, teaches us, why a forlorn phi- 
losopher, deprived of the powerful aid of 
reason (however repugnant this measure 
may be to his inclinations), must eventually 
implore the aid of this unconscionable 
usurer, of this contemptible mountebank. " 

" Always positive!" exclaimed Bippias. 
" Does this follow of course? In truth, 
friend, that is more than you can demon- 
strate. I will grant you once more, that 
there may be a secret bias or inclination, 
but mighty scruples and a powerful per- 
suasion oppose this inclination. " 

" Insomuch," subjoined Pyrrho, " that 
it can have no effect whatever. A soul 
endued with energy and courage " 

" That you will allow," said Diogenes, 
o 4 



200 

" to bean extraordinary and uncommon 
case/' (Here Pyrrho's looks appeared to 
signify that he was willing to apply this 
ambiguous case to his own individual 

person). 

" I am infinitely obliged to you for this 
tacit confession!" cried Diogenes, with a 
triumphant air. « You have yielded me 
the palm of victory. Delineate the profile 
of a Sceptic as the exact counterpart to 
humanity! Describe him in his mode of 
reasoning and of sensation, as a hetero- 
geneous animal, belonging to some extra- 
■ mundane system! Suffer h i m , when stand- 
ing at the sepulchre of his faithful friend, 
of his affectionate wife, of his only child, 
to divest himself totally of that supersti- 
tious scruple, whether death be an extinc- 
tion of being, or whether it be a transition 
to some superior mode of existence. Suffer 
him to fling away the robe of immortality 
as if it were an old, shabby, thread-bare 
garment: and then hearken to the only 
alternative now reserved for you. Unques- 
tionably one of our suppositions must prove 
true. Our Philosopher must either (like 



201 



his fellow mortals, endued with vulgar souls) 
plunge headlong into the gulph of Super- 
stition ; or, (like a superior mind) he must 
remain invincible and unshaken in his 
sceptical doubts. A third case, we have 
neither of us supposed admissible ; to wit, 
that he might gradually incline to a liberal 
and dispassionate dogmatism. Let us now 
adopt the former of these two cases, viz. 
that our Philosopher relapses into Super- 
stition ; thus the Fountain of Light is abso- 
lutely withdrawn from the vuglar multitude : 
for I beseech you, what light can we rea- 
sonably expect from a luminary whose 
fires are totally extinguished ? 

" If -we assume the latter case, viz. that 
our Philosopher remains invincible in his 
sceptical doubts: then he stands severed 
from his fellow mortals by such an enormous 
gulph, that he cannot influence our terres- 
trial planet any more than one of the fixed 
stars, which perchance may illumine some 
extreme region of the universe, without 
shooting one single ray upon our earth, 
since the Creation. 

« In both cases, therefore, the human 



202 



species art left desolate, unbefriended, and 
liable to be beguiled by every false light, 
which will lead them astray in an eternal 
dance, until it precipitates them into some 
dire Serbonian bog. 

" Gentlemen, let us reverence, I beseech 
you, those sages of antiquity, who em- 
ployed their doctrines so effectually to en- 
lighten human reason and to ameliorate the 
human heart ! ! 

" Let us devoutly petition Heaven, that 
these sages of a human complexion (who, 
whilst they shed a salutary light, also com- 
municated a genial warmth) may never 
become extinct amongst us ! Otherwise, we 
shall presently be compelled to reiterate 
the mournful strains of the Prophet, and 
exclaim: u Behold the earth is wrapt 
in obscurity, and darkness covers the na- 
tions!" 



203 



THE OAK AND THE ACORN; 

A DIALOGUE: 

,K ALLUSION TO A LITERARY PUBLICATION OF KB. 
DUTENS, ENTITLED, " AN INQUIRY INTO THE ORI- 
GIN OF THOSE DISCOVERIES, USUALLY ASCRIBED TO 
THE MODERNS." 



Shortly after the publication of his 
performance, wherein Mr. Dutens pretends 
to have discovered in the Ancients all the 
systems of modern philosophers, he paid 
' an occasional visit to his friend, the Mar- 
quis Gemelli, at his villa, situate in the 
vicinity of Turin. He found him taking 
the air in his park, where, after exchanging 
some introductory compliments, Mr. Du- 
tens' performance became the topic of their 
conversation. 

« Really, my dear Mr. Dutens," said 
the Marquis, " I must needs confess that 
I am better pleased with you than with any 
of your literary predecessors. All those 
who have hitherto discussed this subject 



mi 



have been marvellously deficient in candour 
and knowledge. Some amongst their num- 
ber, who were familiar with the Ancients, 
were but imperfectly acquainted with the 
Moderns; again, others that were conve- 
sant with the Moderns, were entire stran- 
gers to the Ancients. The former sought 
to indemnify themselves for their learned 
lucubrations, by estimating their antiqua- 
rian researches at too exorbitant a valua- 
tion ; the latter endeavoured to exculpate 
their ignorance by affecting to despise an- 
tiquity. "We may easily account for this, 
my dear friend. We doat extravagantly 
upon what we actually possess, by over-* 
rating its intrinsic value ; we console our- 
selves for what we do not possess, by de- 
preciating its excellence." 

D uteris. Are you really persuaded that 
I have preserved a just medium between 
both extremes ? 

Marquis. I am, in a great measure. 

TJutens. Have I shewn strict impar- 
tiality both to the Ancients and Moderns ? 

Marquis. I do not pretend to say that 
this is exactly the case. However, Mr, 



§05 



Dutens, you have been more impartial 
than others. 1 also grant, you are more 
competent to form a fair estimate of theiT 
respective merits, being more conversant 
in those two branches of literature which 
I have just specified . 

Dutens. You are pleased to flatter me, 
Marquis. But, if I do not mistake your 
character, your commendation is generally 
accompanied with censure. Pray commu- 
nicate your sentiments without reserve. 

Marquis. I must needs confess that I 
had something further to communicate. 
Dutens. Pray what may that be ? 
Marquis. Advance a little nearer this 
way if you please, Mr. Dutens! Contem- 
plate yonder stately oak, which is the 
largest and most beautiful tree in the 
neighbourhood ! How widely does it diffuse 
its roots '. To what a prodigious depth do 
its radical involutions descend ! No hur- 
ricane can extirpate this tree without rak- 
ing up the whole circumjacent territory. 
What a majestio stem! What refulgent 
glories crown its summit! Behold how its 



206 



stately branches wave in the air and over- 
canopy the ground ! Are you not enchanted 
with this spectacle ? 

Dutens* I know not, Marquis, what 
reply to make. Is not this foreign to our 
present purpose ? 

Marquis. Contemplate for once, I be- 
seech you, this acorn ! Unquestionably it 
encloses within its foldings the embryo and 
profile of yonder majestic tree. In its di- 
minutive plant, hitherto undeveloped, it 
comprizes all the subdivisions and consti- 
iuent parts of the oak. 

Dutens. No doubt ; but what then ? 

Marquis. Resolve me this single ques- 
tion. Is yonder acorn merely on this ac- 
count, the same in substance as the oak ? 
Can this seminal grain, dropt upon the 
ground at a venture, the sport of a blind 
chance, nay, perhaps destined to rot and 
moulder away, which does not refresh our 
eye or exhilarate our spirits with a genial 
shade, does not afford a receptacle to the 
fowls of heaven : can this insignificant 
acorn, I say, compare with yonder ma- 



207 



jestic, umbrageous and deeply rooted oak, 
which for a series of centuries has gradu- 
ally advanced to this flourishing altitude, 
to this grandeur and stability ? 

Dulens. Who pretends to affirm such 
a paradox ? 

Marquis. You, my friend. Who, 
but yourself ? 

D uteris. In what instance, I beseech you ? 

Marquis. In that very performance 
-which was the subject of our conversation. 
According to your principles, the first 
germ of a system is synonymous with the 
system itself ; the imperfect embryo of a 
conception is equivalent to the conception 
itself. 

Whether the Ancients hazarded an hy- 
pothesis as problematical; whether they 
discerned some faint glimmerings of a truth 
by conjecture^ without ascertaining its va- 
rious relations, without deducing its con- 
sequences or investigating its connection 
with other truths ; whether this self-same 
axiom was discovered by the Moderns in 
all its bearings and dependencies upon 
other truths ; whether its properties w«re 



208 

accurately defined and all its important 
consequences, were fully developed : all 
this, I say, amounts to one and the same 
thing, according to your principles. In 
one single conception you discern a whole 
system already carried to perfection; to 
one who only hazards a slight conjecture, 
you would ascribe the whole merit of an 
important discovery. 

Dutens. May I ask you to produce 
your proofs in support of this assertion ? 

Marquis. I can produce a prodigious 
mass of evidence. If what I lay to your 
charge, be in reality a grievous accusation, 
then you must plead guilty in every chap- 
ter. But I need only quote one of the first 
passages, which struck me in a forcible 
manner. You despoil the Moderns of the 
discovery of that system which borrows 
its name from Copernicus ; nay, you pre* 
face this very paragraph by advancing a 
heavy charge of vanity against them. 

Pythagoras (say you) already affirmed 
the motion of the earth. Far from regard- 
ing it as the centre of the universe, he as- 
serted its spherical rotation around the 



209 



liery element, which is synonimous with 
the solar luminary. Hence you infer* 
Pythagoras was acquainted with the sys- 
tem of Copernicus. The same sentiments 
were also held by Aristarchus of Samos, 
by Timaeus of Locris. For both affirmed 
the motion of the earth and its spherical 
revolution. 

Dutens. These passages, Marquis, are 
to be found in the Ancients. 

Marquis. All the passages cited in your 
performance are undoubtedly extant in the 
Ancients : nevertheless, I must needs confess, 
that many of them appear to me capable of 
bearing a different construction. This may 
also probably be the case in the abovemen- 
tioned quotation from Pythagoras. 

Dutens. But which is the prominent 
feature in the system of Copernicus ? Is it 
not his first position, which asserts the rota- 
tion of the earth, and affirms that the sun 
is the centre ? 

Marquis. That I will grant you, Mr. 
Dutens. But what a wide difference is 
there between this problematical hypothe- 
sis of Pythagoras, mingled with so many 
p 



210 



errors, rather conjectured than demon- 
strated, and the luminous system of the 
Moderns, so well digested, arranged and 
illustrated by a variety of observations. 
1 hope you are perfectly convinced of this 
distinction. 

Dutens. Unquestionably, Marquis. But 
do you consider moreover those monu- 
ments of antiquity which have perished ? 
May not their systems likewise have pe- 
rished along with their works r 

Marquis. True, Mr. Dutens; I ac- 
knowledge that I cannot dislodge you from 
that snug corner where you have intrenched 
yourself. But what avails this conjecture, 
which I admit, cannot be refuted? Surely 
the Moderns could not derive light from 
luminaries, whose fires are long since ex- 
tinguished! You must needs confess that, 
under these circumstances, the difference 
remains just as great as 1 stated above. 

Dutens. Well, Marquis, be it so : I 
will readily make you this concession. 

Marquis. I am disposed to make you 
a suitable acknowledgment for your liberal 
corifcession. I will be so generous as to 



211 



admit the truth of all you have advanced. 
I will suppose that the Ancients actually 
entertained those opinions which you as- 
cribe to them. Farther, I will suppose 
those passages which you allude to, have 
actually been the sources whence the Mo- 
derns have derived their information. Ne- 
vertheless, I still ask, how this can ad- 
vantage the Ancients, or how it can dis- 
credit or scandalize the Moderns ? Doubt- 
less, Mr. Dutens, you have contemplated 
the subject in this light ? 

Dutens. Any other person, Marquis,, 
would do the same. The whole honour is 
constantly decreed to the original inventor. 

Marquis. Excuse me. Sir. If every 
body is accustomed to such a mode of rea- 
soning, then every body is in the wrong, 
A philosopher ought never, on any occa- 
sion, to regulate his conduct by this 
maxim, that every body is accustomed to 
act thus. 

Dutens. Then I suppose, genius, in 
your estimation, is not entitled to any pre- 
eminence above vulgar assiduity ? 

p 2 



212 



Marquis. Most assuredly it ranks much 
higher. 

Dutens. But is not invention the pecu- 
liar task of genius ? Is not improvement 
the province of assiduity ? 

Marquis. There lies your grand mis- 
take. You form too narrow conceptions of 
an inventor. 

Dutens. May I request you to com- 
municate your own notions on this sub- 
ject ? 

Marquis. Your mode of reasoning, 
my dear friend, is simply this : " the Acorn 
involves the embryo of the Oak : conse- 
quently the Oak is nothing but the perfect 
development of the Acorn." 

Did ens. Would you reason in any 
other way ? 

Marquis. No ; but I should prosecute 
my inquiries. u This Acorn (I would say) 
is nothing more than the development of 
some pre-exi stent matter. The active ener- 
gies of Nature were no less conspicuous in 
forming the Acorn out of its pre-existent 
matter, than in developing the Oak from 



213 



the Acorn. In both cases, the elements 
combined all their collective energies. In 
both cases, fire and water, earth and air, 
operated with equal force. In both ope- 
rations, Nature is entitled to an equal share 
of honour. 

Dutens. But who furnished the pri- 
mary materials ? 

Marquis. By your leave, they were 
not derived from the agency of Nature, but 
of God. Nature can only develop, but 
God can create. 

Dutens. Will this apply to our pre* 
sent argument ? 

Marquis. I conceive that it is perfectly 
applicable. The subjects of philosophical 
inquiries have always been in existence. 
The germs of philosophical truths have 
been implanted in every human soul. All 
that an inquisitive mind has ever been able 
to accomplish, was the development of 
these germs by a luminous perspicuity and 
arrangement ; by combining or analyzing 
this original stock of ideas. The same 
energy is displayed in shedding a dim lustre 
on some obscure notion, as subsequently in 



214 



diffusing over the self-same notion a blaze 
of light, or in rearing it up to maturity* 
1 think, Mr. Dutens, you will subscribe to 
this theory. 

Dutens. I will allow, that the same 
energies operate in both cases ; but I must 
still ask, in which of these cases do they 
operate more powerfully ? 

Marquis. Do you imagine that I can 
answer your question in general terms ? The 
whole depends upon the nature of the idea, 
tipon the frame and constitution of the soul, 
and likewise upon the antecedent develop* 
ment of preliminary ideas, which serve to 
facilitate this new discovery. To have an 
original conception is oftentimes little bet- 
ter than nothing ; to admire, to improve, 
and to develop, is frequently every thing. 
Probably, Mr. Dutens, you are an admirer 
of Shakspeare ? 

Dutens. Unquestionably I am. 

Marquis. But, according to your prin* 
ciples, you ought to admire my country- 
men more than your own. Shakspeare 
has borrowed some of his most admirable 
dramas from Italian novels^ which of them- 



215 



selves were far from being admirable com- 
positions. Say, would you hold that exu- 
berant store of splendid imagery, of cha- 
racteristical portraits, of original, fertile, 
and gigantic conceptions, which he super- 
added from the prolific storehouse of his 
genius: would you hold all these splendid 
decorations, with which he embellished his 
barren materials, in less estimation than 
the rude, mishapen materials themselves? 
Do you admire that spirit which he infused 
into this inert matter less than the matter 
itself? Do you admire Shakspeare less 
than our noveiiists ? 

Dutens. But is there not some distinc- 
tion, Marquis, between a Poet and a Phi- 
losopher ? 

Marquis. Let the distinction be never 
so great, it is of no avail in the present 
case. When the reason or imagination of an 
Ancient had seized the airy phantom of sonic 
crude, undigested idea, wrapt in some ob- 
scure, metaphorical expression ; when a Mo- 
dern borrowed this self-same idea, defined 
it with greater accuracy, and enlightened it 
with luminous splendours: when the for- 
r 4 



216 



mer had only some faint glimmerings of a 
truth, applicable to one individual case; 
when the Modern converted this truth into 
pure sterling ore, by purging it from all 
the dross and incumbrances of individual 
cases, and by transmuting it into the fun- 
damental principle of some general system: 
when an Ancient advanced some bold, phi- 
losophical axiom, which he endeavoured 
to establish by a chain of sophistical rea- 
soning ; when a Modern demonstrated this 
self-same axiom by sound logical argu- 
ment : would you, I ask, without hesita- 
tion, assign the precedence to the Ancient 
before the Modern ? Might not the Modern 
be supposed, in some instances, to possess 
an equal, if not a superior share of genius ? 

But I perceive, Mr. Dutens, that I al- 
ready grow troublesome to you . Hereafter, 
we may commune together upon more de* 
lightf&l topics. Allow me to communicate 
to you by letter, whatever has occurred to 
Hie concerning your performance. 



/ 



217 



FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. DUTENS. 

Give me leave, Mr. Dutens, by way of 
supplement to our late conversation, to su- 
peradd one single query, which is only 
adapted to the capacity of a contemplative 
mind. Has it not frequently occurred, 
during your metaphysical speculations, 
that by the sole energies of your own rea- 
son, you have stumbled upon ideas, upon 
axioms, problems, and solutions, which, 
to your no small astonishment, you have 
subsequently met with in other philoso- 
phers ? If that be the case, then 1 may 
fairly be allowed to retract my former con- 
cession ; viz. that the Moderns borrowed 
their ideas from the Ancients, and conse- 
quently by this supposition, the boasted 
excellence and superiority of the Ancients is 
absolutely annihilated. 

Cartesius (you repeatedly affirm) has bor- 
rowed this or the other doctrine from Epi- 
curus; Locke has discovered this or the 
other truth in Aristotle ; Leibnitz has pur- 
loined one or the other idea from Plato : 



218 



but how, in the name of justice, can you 
demonstrate these loose assertions ? Is it not 
possible, that two mighty geniuses, gifted 
with equal energies of soul, wholly applied 
to the same subjects of inquiry, should de- 
velop similar ideas ? Is it not manifest on 
sundry occasions, that each of them ar- 
rived singly at one common goal by diffe- 
rent paths ? Does it not frequently happen, 
that the whole utility and intrinsic excel- 
lence of an idea, depends upon this single 
circumstance, whether it be connected with 
this or the other chain of reasoning ; whe- 
ther it be deduced from such or such logi- 
cal arguments ? 

You may still, if you please, honour the 
Ancients with the appellation of inventors ; 
but only by way of distinction, not in an 
absolute sense ; inasmuch as they were the 
first who conceived and promulgated cer- 
tain ideas. But the whole merit or utility 
of the discovery is quite out of the ques- 
tion. It can only be termed lucky or ac- 
cidental. Leibnitz, Locke, and Cartes i us, 
are therefore in no respect inferior to those 
sages of antiquity, save only in this single 



219 

circumstance, that they were born at a later 
period. 

I have recently charged you with a heavy 
imputation, Mr. Dutens, to wit, with hav- 
ing confounded the imperfect germ of a 
system with the system itself; the faint 
glimmerings of a conception with the con- 
ception itself. Behold now, in what man- 
ner I plead your cause, and endeavour to 
acquit you of this censure ! 

Mr. Dutens (I take it for granted) had 
perused the works of the Moderns, before 
he studied the monuments of antiquity. In 
the former he had found every thing more 
accurately defined, more clearly illustrated, 
more logically demonstrated, whatever was 
left obscure, perplexed, or undefined by 
the Ancients. By a familiar acquaintance 
with the Moderns, he had been accustomed 
to associate along with every notion, an ac- 
curate definition, along with every hypo- 
thesis, some clauses of exception; to as- 
cend from effects to primary causes, and 
from primary causes to deduce their effects* 
This process of reasoning had been deve- 
loped by others > but not by his own cogi- 



220 



tations. He had nothing more to do than 
to be a docile scholar, and to attend to the 
instructions of his teachers. In these in- 
quiries he was not conscious of any per- 
sonal fatigue or hardship; it was become 
perfectly familiar to him, to enlighten every 
obscure notion, to rectify every erroneous 
opinion, and with the greatest facility to 
ascend from effects to primary causes, or 
again from primary causes to descend to 
their effects. Thus tutored, and thus pre- 
pared, he began to study the works of an- 
tiquity. 

Now what could be more easy or natural, 
I ask, than that he should discover in every 
vague supposition, some positive truth ; in 
every solitary idea, a whole aggregate of 
corresponding notions ; in every heap of 
mishapen ruins, the solid fabric of a per- 
fect system ? In short, what could be more 
natural than that he should discern an Oak 
in every Acorn, which he never would have 
surmised, had none ever grown or flou- 
rished ? 

*' How V* exclaimed one of my friends 
(with whom I was once conversing con- 



221 



eerning the electrical experiments of New- 
ton) 66 Did not Newton actually discern 
any sparks of the electrical fluid ? Do we 
n^>t now behold them issuing forth in the 
niost distinct manner ?" 

But allow me once more, Mr. Dutens 5 
to return from this digression, to your per- 
formance. As long as you strictly confine 
your regards within the department of meta- 
physics, your conjectures appear plausible 
enough : but in the province of mathema- 
tics, of natural philosophy, and other col- 
lateral branches of Science (wherein the 
Moderns have made such original disco- 
veries) you will find it somewhat more dif- 
ficult to substantiate your argument. In 
these regions, 1 confess, I did actually sup- 
pose that you would candidly have ac- 
knowledged their supremacy, or that you 
would have allowed an equal portion of 
merit to their genius as to blind chance. 
But your metaphysical inquiries had al- 
ready prepossessed you so strangely in fa- 
vour of the. Ancients, that your enthusiasm 
insensibly carried you too far. 

By the original constitution cf human 



222 



nature, we have a strong propensity to leave 
nothing unfinished. When we once admire 
or despise any object, we ordinarily proceed 
to extremes. Without descending to parti- 
culars, I need only remind you on the Pre- 
face to your performance. " In our compa- 
rative estimate," (say you) 66 of the respec- 
tive merits of the Ancients and Moderns, 
we must carefully distinguish those Arts 
and Sciences, which, in order to arrive at 
perfection, require long practice and ex- 
perience, from those which solely depend 
upon genius and talents. We must like- 
wise not omit this consideration, that the 
major part of Ihose admirable and useful 
discoveries, which are the glory of modern 
limes (such as the compass, gunpowder, 
telescopes, and so forth), were not the in- 
vention of philosophical geniuses, but the 
fortuitous offspring of chance, or the expe- 
riments of ignorant mechanics. " 

The sense of this passage is briefly as 
follows : whatever simply depended upon 
practice or experience, has been gradually 
improved by the Moderns, and carried to 
the acme of perfection: on the other hand, 



223 



whatever depended upon genius or talents f 
has been already accomplished by the 
Ancients. Consequently it is assiduity, 
a diligent observation and collection of ma- 
terials, which constitute the sole excellence 
of the Moderns. Are we not to suppose 
that they have only made advances in bo- 
tany, in anatomy, or surgery, and in some 
few other sciences, mentioned in your per- 
formance (which, by the bye, also require 
some portion of genius), or that under the 
immediate tuition of the Ancients, they 
have mechanically laboured according to 
those general principles which these mono- 
polisers of genius thought fit to dictate to 
them ? Farther, we must suppose (con- 
formably to your hypothesis), that the pro- 
gress they have made in navigation, in astro- 
nomy, in all the departments of natural 
philosophy, are solely to be ascribed to the 
inventions of the compass, of telescopes, of 
magnifying glasses, and of other instru- 
ments ; moreover, that these inventions 
were accidental, and consequently that 
every thing depended upon chance. 

I will readily grant, that we tnay ascribe 



224 



something, but by no means the whole^ 
to chance. Many important inventions, 
which have furnished us with solutions of 
various natural phenomena, are far from 
being accidental discoveries : they have 
been the result of deliberate inquiry and 
painful research, aided by some few data ? 
■without which no discoveries could be 
made. 

To these important inventions, chance 
only furnished the primary incentive, which 
the genius of the original inventors, or of 
those who improved upon their discoveries, 
carried to perfection. These improvements 
were frequently not accomplished without 
an artificial chain of complex ideas, or 
without a long series of reflections. Ac- 
cordingly, Mr. Dutens, I am of opinion, 
that after making some reasonable con- 
cessions to chance, you ought still to do 
justice to the meritorious labours of the Mo- 
derns. We likewise possess geniuses ; and 
they are geniuses of a magnitude not in- 
ferior to those of antiquity. It would in- 
deed be something extraordinary if it were 
otherwise. 



225 



Why sliould the energies of the intellec- 
tual world be in such a languishing and de- 
clining state, more especially as the corpo- 
real world is endued with the same vigour 
and the same energies of generation as be- 
fore ? 

The Moderns have not only derived wis- 
dom from experience ; they have also exer* 
cised their own ingenuity, and have pro- 
duced many bright conceptions. They 
have not only discovered ; they have like- 
wise invented. In their inventions, far 
from relying upon the subsidiary aids of 
chance, they made spontaneous improve- 
ments. With sound intelligence they com- 
pared and digested their observations, esta- 
blished general theorems, which they subse- 
quently applied towards the improvement 
and enlargement of Science. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO MR, DUTENS. 

It would seem that you suspect me of 
holding the Sages of Antiquity in con- 
tempt, on account of those objections I 
Q 



225 



have filed against you. Really, Sir, yw 
wrong me in this particular. It does not 
follow of course, that we must needs despise 
one whom we cannot contemplate exclu- 
sively as the sole object of our reverence 
or adoration. I freely confess that I am 
one of the most passionate admirers of the 
Ancients, and would allow them not only 
many of those perfections and excellencies 
which you are pleased to assign :them; but 
moreover, many other unrivalled beauties of 
style and composition that characterize 
them as fine writers, which alone would 
suffice to make us peruse them with avidity. 
Nevertheless, I could not possibly consent 
to behold you exalting in a manner some- 
what unjustifiable, the geniuses of anti- 
quity above those of modern times: this 
would rather serve to dishearten, than to 
encourage Modern Philosophers in prose- 
cuting their useful inquiries. The dispute 
about the right of precedency is also in 
this particular case, as in all other cases, a 
very superfluous controversy ; the more so, 
, since in this very point, there exist so many 
doubts, so much obscurity ; so many ifs 



mid 'but that we can never cherish hopes 
of coming to any positive determination. 

Besides, if it be absurd to allow one of 
the two rival parties the exclusive mono- 
poly of genius, our inquiries must finally 
terminate in this single question; Which of 
them displayed a superior, which an infe- 
rior portion of genius ? But what man ever 
discovered, or will hereafter discover an 
unerring standard or genuine criterion of 
genius ? 

Most assuredly, my dear friend, your 
own scientific attainments would have qua- 
lified you to produce a work of far greater 
importance and originality. For this very 
reason, I cannot forbear lamenting that you 
have sought to revive that antiquated con- 
troversy about precedency between the An- 
cients and Moderns. I formed already high 
expectations from the very title page pre- 
fixed to your performance, which professes 
to be : An Inquiry into the Origin of the 
Discoveries ascribed to the Moderns. 
From the author of a System on Mon ado- 
logy ; from the meritorious editor of the 
Works of Leibnitz,, I did conceive myself 
q2 



4 228 



warranted to expect, that lie would have 
traced the systems of the Moderns to 
their fountain head, even to their first 
crude, undigested ideas ; that he would 
have insensibly conducted me along the 
serpentine mazes of those deep and capa- 
cious torrents, which now discharge their 
copious stores with such a majestic tide, 
into the ocean of knowledge ; moreover, 
that during our march, he would have 
^pointed out how they had been swelled and 
dilated to such an altitude, and capacity, 
by being incorporated with lesser streams 
and rivulets. 

Finally, I expected to behtild a perform- 
ance, wherein the imperceptible growth of 
human knowledge (at least partially, or in 
some of its prominent features) were dis- 
closed and developed. In reality, dear 
friend, had you only proved fortunate 
enough to overcome some of those diffi* 
cutties, inseparably connected with such 
an undertaking; had you (in the perform- 
ance of your task) only discovered a path 
conducting towards that philosophical goal, 
which is the ultimate scope of such inqui- 



229 



ries: how amply would you have deserved 
the thanks of the commonwealth of letters ; 
how greatly would you have edified the 
scholar as well as the philosopher ! 

Give me leave to communicate the out- 
lines of a general scheme, which, conform- 
ably to my ideas, might serve as a model 
and prototype for the composition of such 
a history. Ever since the times of the 
Greeks and Romans, we have made rapid 
advances, not only in those sciences which 
are derived from experience or observation, 
or wherein a lucky chance supplies us with 
new machinery or instruments of inven- 
tion ; but likewise in the more lofty regions 
of metaphysical science ; in the more sub- 
lime speculations concerning God, the uni- 
verse,, and the constitution of our soul. In 
all these departments of Science, we find 
more luminous splendours, more metho-- 
dical arrangement, more truth and evir 
dence, in modern times than in ancient days. 

But it is likewise an undeniable fdct > 
that (in spite of the indefatigable researches 
of the most profound philosophers) our ig- 
norance in other particulars of knowledge 
Q3 



230 



is no less conspicuous than that of anti- 
quity. If we make any progress, it is only 
in the knowledge of our own deficiency 
and incapacity ; for this species of con* 
viction may also be styled a progressive 
advance. 

In the wide domains of Science, we have 
ascended some lesser hills, and also some 
loftier mountains, where our horizon is con* 
siderably dilated, and whence we have de- 
lightful vistas of regions, hitherto-unknown 
and undiscovered. But the most com- 
manding and elevated altitudes, whence 
we might reasonably expect prospects su- 
perlatively glorious, enriched with an im- 
mense treasury of knowledge : these alti- 
tudes, I say, both the Ancients and our- 
selves have left unsurmounted. The main 
distinction between us and them, probably 
amounts to this: u the Ancients sought 
through bye-paths to arrive at this insur- 
mountable pinnacle ; their attempt mis- 
carried : nevertheless a hope still remained, 
that some daring genius might prove more 
fortunate, and scale the summit by prose- 
cuting a different *oute. 



In our latter days, on the other' hand? 
we have not only paced to and fro in the 
beaten footsteps of our predecessors; we 
have not only attempted all the devious 
windings and aberrations, whenever the 
beaten path was- too- steep or rugged : but 
we have likewise measured the whole cir- 
cumference of the lower regions, as far as 
it could be ascertained : we have repeated 
our experiments on every side, until we 
found them absolutely unavailing. Con- 
sequently we possess, or at least ought to 
possess, one advantage over the Ancients ; 
to wit, that we have relinquished all hopes 
of ever accomplishing such an unattainable 
project, and now employ our collective 
energies in order to cultivate those barren/ 
neglected domains, which lie directly be- 
fore us, where no formidable obstacles pre- 
sent an insuperable barrier to hupian ex- 
ertions* 



REMARKS 

ON THE 

MORAL EXCELLENCE OF POETBY, 

m AN EPISTLE TO A FS5END.- 



You are subject to a mistake, dear i 
friend, very excusable in its nature; for 
Socrates himself is also somewhat blame- 
able in this very particular. You would 
fain restrict the application of poesy, ex- 
clusively to the purposes of virtue, to the 
expansion of generous and honest senti- 
merits. But you have likewise incurred 
another mistake, of which Socrates stands 
acquitted. What you conceive to be the 
ultimate goal °f P oes y> y ou a l s0 desire to 
see established as a fundamental axiom in 
the theory of poetic excellence. Allow me 
to make a candid exposition of my reasons 
for differing from you in these two parti* 
culars. 



233 

Poetic genius, as you know, consists if* 
the peculiar excellence and perfection of 
the subordinate energies of our soul, or if 
you please, in those intellectual powers^ 
which we are accustomed to denominate 
faculties of perception for the Sublime and 
Beautiful. A talent to represent absent ob- 
jects as actually present ; by a magical 
illusion to confer substance and reality 
upon the images of imagination; to asso~ 
ciate together, dissimilar and heterogene- 
ous ideas ; to be susceptible of all those 
impressions, which usually awaken the 
affections of the human heart ; in shorty- 
fancy > invention, wit, sensibility, consti- 
tute a poet. Those beauties which a genius 
conjures up through the medium of these 
intellectual faculties, cannot possibly arouse 
the affections, amuse the fancy, or chal- 
lenge the admiration of a reader, without 
communicating happy impressions to the 
corresponding faculties of his own souL 

The same mysterious collusion prevails 
between the energies of the corporeal and 
intellectual world. No sooner is one of 
them aroused to action, than a sensible 



m 

impression is made upon the remainder 
which have any kind of affinity or corres- 
pondence with the former; one universal 
commotion and uproar obtains throughout ; 
and whereas no operations of nature are 
suddenly suspended, without leaving some 
vestiges behind ; thus in this particular 
case, such -like exertions are never unavail- 
ing or unproductive for our intellectual 
faculties* 

Every application of our intellectual or 
corporeal faculties serves to exalt and in* 
vigorate ; every display of activity renders 
us capable of additional exertion. Conse- 
quently , when we feel our fancy exalted by 
the picturesque descriptions of a poet, it 
does not suffice to say, that our stock of 
Images is augmented by the acquisition of 
another glowing picture, or, when we be- 
hold the flashes and corruscations of his 
wit, that we acquire a knowledge of some 
new combinations of ideas : moreover, 
when our feelings are aroused by the pa- 
thetic sentiments of the poet, it does not 
suffice to say, that we sympathize with 
this or the other sensation s all the collec- 



S35 



tivc energies of our fancy now become -mor* 
vigorous, the acumen of our wit is im- 
proved, the affections of our heart are 
exalted and ennobled. It is not simply on 
this occasion that the energies of our soul 
co-operate: they are also supplied with ad- 
ditional vigour, ardour, and elasticity, t* 
operate on future occasions. 

This, dear friend, is the very particular 
which 1 am inclined to regard as the ulti- 
mate scope and object of poesy. We are 
all agreed, that our happiness consists m 
the perfection of ournature. Now, whereas 
our nature consists in the aggregate sum of 
our intellectual faculties ; of course, who- 
soever improves any of our intellectual fa- 
culties, also contributes towards our intel- 
lectual perfection and happiness. It is a 
wrong notion, to conceive the pleasure 
which the perusal of a poem affords, to be 
either a mere temporary amusement, ob 
else to have a pernicioas tendency. Wo 
derive some degree of emolument from 
every poem, with this difference, that it 
may prove more pernicious on the one 
hand, than beneficial on ttse other. Henc© 



S3G 



let us endeavour to deduee those funda- 
mental laws, which ought to regulate the 
application of poetic genius. It is not ab- 
solutely requisite that a poet should pro- 
pose to himself, as his sole object, to ad- 
vance the cause of virtue, or to engender 
holy and generous sentiments ; for our 
moral sense is not the only faculty of our 
souls which ought to be ameliorated. It 
only constitutes one member in that aggre- 
gate series of energies which must alto- 
gether display their activity, and be col- 
lectively improved. But the partial culti- 
vation of one individual faculty does by no 
means suppose a corresponding cultivation 
of the remainder. 

Now, whereas in the human body, one 
sense is more refined and distinguishing, or 
communicates a mor© copious store of ideas 
to the mind ; moreover, whereas a partial 
exercise of one of the senses may prove 
detrimental to the remainder ; farther, 
whereas all our senses may be diverted to- 
wards improper objects, and by a perverse 
application, may be materially injured * 
after the same wanner,- in our souls, one 



^237 



faculty w.iy be more estimable, more re* 
f ore exalted ; one of our intellectual 

e'm rgies may be invigorated at the expence 
of the remainder; in like manner, all 
our intellectual powers may be employed 
upon improper objects, and by a perverse 
application be eventually deranged and 
corrupted. Farther, in regard to the 
human body, as we ought to cultivate the 
organ of hearing more assiduously than 
that of taste ; ought not to endanger our 
organs of sight by indulging our olfactory 
nerves, or irritate the fibres of sensation by 
a too violent tension : thus with respect to 
the soul, we ought to cherish and cultivate 
her sublimest energies, ought not to create 
an uproar or disharmony between the sub- 
ordinate and higher faculties, or give them, 
a tendency diametrically opposite to the 
original purposes of Nature. 

A poet must communicate vigour to our 
imagination without deranging the faculty 
of reason; he must impart acumen tb our 
wit and powers of invention without cor- 
rupting our social virtues ; he must hymn 
the praises of Venus without suborning a 



238 



propensity to profligate manners or sen- 
suality. 

In this genera] view of the subject, dear 
friend, you will readily concur with my 
theorem ; for it exactly coincides with your 
own, with this difference, that yours is 
considerably improved and enlarged : but 
we may possibly disagree concerning its 
determinate application to individual cases. 

It is exactly in the application of his 
principles, that Socrates, or if you please, 
that Plato, advanced somewhat too far. 
True it is, in whatever relates to Grecian 
mythology, he considered his subject 
through a medium which is useless and 
superfluous in modern times ; for what is 
now become a mere poetic fiction, was 
then the actual persuasion of the com- 
monalty ; consequently many of his ideas 
may liave produced a sensation in his days, 
which in ours we need not apprehend. 
But even with regard to moral sentiment, 
Plato appears to caution his disciples against 
false lights, which only existed in his own 
imagination. He appears to regard the 
immorality of a subject and the immorality 



939 



of a composition as synonimous terms. But 
it is not our buiness at present to define the 
application of a rule 5 but the rule itself, 
and having discovered this rule, we need 
only inquire, whether it has a reference to 
ethics or to the theory of poetry. 

The science of ethics, as we know, does 
not embrace exclusively any single part of 
our intellectual faculties, but the sum total 
of all our energies : it contemplates each 
individual faculty according to its respec- 
tive bearings and relations to the perfection 
of our whole being, and endeavours to mo- 
dulate ail the powers of our soul to that 
perfect harmony, .which is the essence of 
happiness. On the other hand, the theory 
of poesy is more circumscribed in its 
boundaries ; for, whereas poesy only affects 
the subordinate energies of the soul, or the 
faculty of perception for the Sublime and 
Beautiful; consequently it must be re- 
stricted in its application to this faculty. 

The ultimate scope of poesy is the per- 
fection of sense, or beauty, as far as it can 
be represented through the vehicle of lan- 
guage. 



240 



If tlie art of poesy aspire at something 
higher than this denomination of beauty , if 
it aspire after a kind of perfection which is 
neither (he subject of intuition nor of sen- 
sation, or (if I may be allowed to employ 
a technical phrase) which is no pheno- 
menon : then it loses sight of its true goal, 
and deviates into a wrong course. The 
poetic standard of truth is nearly the same 
as the poetic standard of morality. 

Reason, which inspects the internal re- 
lations of things, forms an estimate of their 
value, which differs widely from that 
which the faculty of taste is accustomed ta 
form. To a poet, it is a matter of in- 
difference, whether reason, after a philo- 
sophical analysis of his ideas, views the 
subject in a light diametrically opposite to 
that in which it is contemplated by fancy. 

Of what consequence is it to him, whe- 
ther reason discerns inconsistencies, where 
^taste discovers none, or which can only be 
detected by a painful research and elaborate 
inquiry. Let us take it for granted that 
the golden age, where the fancy of a 
j>oet delights to expatiate, did not or could 



241 



not possibly exist; that in such a rude and 
simple condition of life, in such a narrow 
circle of social comforts, reason, manners, 
moral sentiments, could not possibly be re- 
fined to such a superlative degree: of what 
consequence, I ask, is all this to the poet, 
who is only desirous to amuse our imagi- 
nation, to awaken our sensibility, or to 
fascinate our senses by some pleasant dream ? 
Provided he prove so fortunate as to gloss 
over his inconsistencies, provided he strictly 
confine himself to his original hypothesis, 
or can impart to error the guise of truth, 
then he stands fully acquitted of all those 
obligations imposed upon him. lie may 
have transgressed the rules of logic, but he 
has not violated the laws of poetry. Let 
us now apply, dear friend, the poetic 
standard of truth, to the poetic standard of 
morality. 

The art of poesy does not exact any thing 
furtherfrom the poet, than that he should not 
grossly insult our moral feelings, or violate 
those external forms of moral beauty which 
are, most assuredly, the main sources of 
poetic beauty. He is equally regardless 

K 



242 



about the internal laws or occult principles 
of moral excellence, as about logical truth 
or precision. Although that whirlwind of 
passion and of affections, which the poet 
suborns within our bosom, be repugnant to 
reason; although reason may enter a pro- 
test against those sentiments which a poet 
persuades us to adopt, may explode them 
as frivolous or impertinent ; although this 
supreme judge may pronounce those cha- 
racters and actions to be false or indecorous, 
which a poet would fain pourtray in ami- 
able and beautiful colours : of what con- 
sequence is all this to the art of poesy, which 
is solely conversant in beauty ? Which 
only accosts our feelings ? Whose demands 
are fully satisfied, provided the deficiency 
of moral excellence be not so obvious or 
glaring as absolutely to degenerate into 
raoral turpitude ? The poet has already 
performed his functions as a poet : is any 
one inclined to call him to account for his 
conduct ; he cannot arraign him before the 
tribunal of criticism, but in the forum of 
morality. If this be the case, dear friend, 
then the hypothesis, that a poet ought chiefly 



243 



to promote the interests of wisdom or of 
virtue, cannot be established as a fixed 
axiom in the theory of the poetic art. It 
would be an unproductive idea, but no ele- 
mentary principle ; it could not be incor- 
porated with the code of poetic laws, but 
would only stand registered in the intro- 
duction or in the appendix. It would be 
of equal force and efficacy with that equi- 
table maxim in the art of war, that no state 
ought to wage war against another, unless 
in defence of her own rights, or for the 
fafety of her subjects. A war, whether 
legal or unjust, is uniformly conducted 
after the same manner ; the same expert 
manoeuvres and warlike tactics are dis- 
played ; nay (if we could believe Monsieur 
Folard) y Caesar was a more magnanimous 
hero than Pompey himself, although the 
latter sought to rescue, and the former to 
enslave his country. In like manner, a 
poem, whether moral or immoral, is inva- 
riably penned according to the same laws, 
and (and if we would abide by the decision 
of a critical Aristarchus), Voltaire, as a 
poet, is infinitely superior to Racine junior. 
r 2 



But are we to suppose that these maxims 
are on this account invalidated, or lose 
their efficacy; I apprehend not, my dear 
friend. For that which cannot be esta- 
blished as a fundamental principle in the 
art of war, must nevertheless influence the 
conduct of a warrior; that very maxim, 
which cannot be regarded as a theorem in 
ilie art of poetry, must nevertheless be ac- 
knowledged as binding by the poet himself. 

In theoretical science, which instructs 
us in the actual properties of things, we 
frequently make subtle distinctions between 
notions which we cannot reduce to practice. 
In practical science, where we must strictly 
adhere to those rules that are prescribed for 
our observance, Ave also make similar dis- 
tinctions, which, however, we are not war- 
ranted to reduce to practice. The art of 
poesy only dictates to a poet those prin- 
ciples which he has to observe in his cha- 
racter as a poet : but I would fain ask, 
whether he has no other character? Is he 
not likewise a man? Is he not a subject 
in the kingdom of his God ? Is he not a 
member of society, a citizen of the state ? 



245 



Now* inasmuch as lie bears all these re- 
spective characters ; has he not other duties 
of far higher importance and obligation, 
which he must likewise observe ? He can- 
not therefore take upon him to say : " I 
will only sustain my character as a poet, 
wholly regardless about my other relations. 
If he cannot dissolve these moral relations 
(and how can he possibly dissolve them ?) 
then he cannot cancel those moral obliga- 
tions which they impose upon him. Nay, 
even his readers would quickly reprobate 
his conduct, were he to dissolve his moral 
relations. Inasmuch as he is a poet, we 
are his critical judges ; inasmuch as he 
bears the character of a man, we are his 
moral judges : his case is truly deplorable, 
if he be more insensible to the moral re- 
proaches of a censor, than to the sarcasms 
of a critic. 

After this explanation, my dear friend, 
you will see that our difference in opinion 
is not very material. 



e3 



246 



JOSEPH TIMM. 



Mr. Joseph Timm, who was origi- 
Rally a man of considerable landed pro- 
perly, but subsequently possessed a large 
raonied interest, and lived upon his means, 
conceived in his latter days a violent and 
inveterate antipathy towards every species 
of speculation. The bare word, along 
with ail its derivatives, operated upon his 
mind like unto some magical spell or in- 
cantation. From an intimate acquaintance, 
in whose trade he had deposited consider- 
able sums of money, he hastily withdrew 
both his money and his friendship, because 
the former, in the simplicity of his hearty 
had frankly communicated to him some 
speculations which lie intended to make. 
From the French, whose cause he had first 
of all warmly espoused, he suddenly de- 
serted to the Coalition, because he had 



247 

learnt that the former harboured a specula^ 
tion upon Egypt : nay, he would not con- 
tribute a single mite towards constructing 
a parsonage in the parish of St. Paul's, be- 
cause the parson (who was a good astrono- 
mer, although he made a sorry figure in 
the pulpit) had made application for an 
observatory (or speculum), which had been 
granted him by the parish officers. 

He made his Will, with a sound and 
disposing mind (according to the technical 
phrase), being desirous to disinherit his 
two sons, in order to transfer his property 
by an unalienable tenure to his nephews. 
On this occasion he consulted a law coun- 
sellor, one Doctor Glau 7 who accosted him 
to the following effect : 

Glau. But, my dear Mr. Timm, it is 
requisite to justify this measure by power- 
ful arguments; otherwise the validity of 
your Will may be called in question after 
your demise ; nay, perhaps your testament 
may be wholly set aside. 

Timm. What, shall my Will be invali- 
dated by my sons ! Let them do it if they 
dare I 

r4 



MS 



Glau. But when you are once safely 

lodged in your grave, Mr. Tiram 

Timm. Aye, there's the rub! There's 
an end to all authority ! That escaped my 
recollection. Instruct me, my dear Doc- 
tor Glau, I beseech you, what remedy I 
am to provide for such a contingency. 

GUni Why $ you have nothing further 
to do, than to advance your reasons why 
your property cannot or must not be dele- 
gated to your sons. If your arguments be 

sound and conclusive- 

TiMfin Unquestionably they a*£ They 
are as well founded, Doctor, as they pos- 
sibly can be. For my sons— (Here he as- 
sumed a rueful countenance, and with evi- 
dent symptoms of uneasiness shoved his 
velvet cap from one side of his head to the 
other) I would fain suppress it altogether ; 
but to be sure 1 must let you into the secret 
of my misfortune. These hair-brained fel- 
lows speculate 

Glau. Speculate ! Well, what of that ? 
Timm . What of that ? What of that ? 
Your question, Doctor, let me tell you, 
sounds somewhat strangely. Mayhap you 



249 



are likewise yourself one of this fraternity. 
What say you to that ? 

Glau. A speculator, do you say? God 
forbid, not I. I am not conversant in aero- 
nautics. I am a plain man, d'ye see, who 
follows his nose, and marches upon solid 
ground. 

Timm. May Heaven preserve you steady 
in this laudable resolution ! Then you will 
not hazard your neck, like that whimsical 
adventurer, who projected a pretty snug 
speculation, of transporting himself to Eng- 
land, across the Channel. 

Glau. For God's sake don't utter a 
syllable of that transaction. Whenever I 
think on't I am subject to an involuntary 
dizziness of the brain. Let us confine our- 
selves strictly to the question before us ; 
to wit, what objections you can urge 
against your sons, that 1 may insert them 
in the Will. 

Timm. It is their ungovernable rage 
for speculation, Doctor, their incurable 
folly, which constantly urges them to un* 
dertake things beyond the standard of their 
ability, to overleap the boundaries of that 



250 



sphere wherein it hath pleased God to 
place them, where they ought to reside, 
to display their active functions and be 
happy. Concerning my eldest son, all the 
world knows, and you must needs know, 
that— 

Glau. True! that he was obliged to 
decamp, because his affairs were deranged, 

Timm. Exactly so. But whence do 
you imagine, all this originated? His 
concern was a profitable one : by good 
management, every thing would iiave 
turned out well. He had his mother's 
jointure, and a pretty decent capital from 
his father into the bargain. He had as 
respectable patrons in the commercial 
world as his heart could wish for, together 
with a whole host of chapmen and cus- 
tomers ; all of them (between friends) snug 
and cocksure; none of your Polish Jews : 
none of your Russians. 

Glau. But how did it come to pass, 
Mr. Timm, that lie failed ? This surprized 
many good people besides myself. His 
household establishment was not expensive. 

Timm. No, but then he had prodi- 



251 



gious speculations in his head. Could not 
this fellow, think you, have lived happily 
and comfortably in Europe, along with 
his family ? In an evil hour he bethought 
himself to export all his hard cash to Nortk 
America. 

Glau. How so, pray ? Did he actually 
send it to North America ? 

Timm. I have a shrewd guess that this 
was the case. For lie had it in contem- 
plation to pay a visit shortly to his fair, 
flourishing principality. 

Glau. Principality, do you say, Mr, 
Timm ? You amaze me ! 

Timm. Aye, forsooth, nothing less, I 
can assure you. Do you imagine that his 
gigantic mind would grasp trifles ? He has 
purchased vast domains, a tract of land, 
which contains twenty, nay, 1 verily be- 
lieve, thirty square miles ; in short, more 
territory than many a fine principality can 
boast. But if you are inclined to suppose > 
that one single human being is to be found 
on the superficies of all those square miles ? 
qy that so much corn grows on this tract of 
territory as would afford a hearty meal to a 



252 



mouse, I can assure you that you are 
grossly mistaken. 

Glau. This is a chapter of miracles^ 
Mr. Tiram ! 

Thnm. Rather say, a chapter of dismal 
accidents. I can assure yoif it was no 
chapter of miracles for me. This evil was 
hereditary on the mother's side* She also 
laboured under this affliction. But this is 
generally the case ; for I have heard say 
that folly and madness are hereditary. 

Glau. How, Mr. Timm ! Do you 
actually allude to your dear departed 
spouse ? 

Timm. "What would you say. Doctor, 
when I tell you that, whereas my eldest 
son found himself somewhat hampered in 
Europe ; the whole habitable globe was 
too narrow for the aspiring mind of his 
mother? During the last period of her 
life, she was wholly absorbed in lofty spe- 
culations on Eternity, insomuch, that my 
household economy was deranged and 
turned topsy-turvy ; nay, strange to tell ! 
I, poor wight, was bereft of all matrimonial 
comfort in my pilgrimage upon , earth. 



253 



The effluvia of her godliness was so strong 
that it quite overcame me ! 

Glau. I have some notion of that dis- 
ease. My late dear wife w as also afflicted 
nearly in the same way. 

Tlmm. Well then • God rest their souls 
in peace ! 

Glau. Amen, say I. But if I may 
Venture to disclose my sentiments with re- 
gard to your Will, the case of your young- 
est son, the Aulic counsellor, gives me the 
most uneasiness. I am informed that he 
has acquired great reputation. 

Timm. Reputation ! Aye, forsooth ! But 
unluckily I have been undeceived on this 
subject by the Dean of our Chapter, who 
has let me into the secret, what sort of 
reputation this is. To ingratiate yourself 
with a set of raw youngsters, or to steal 
their applause, is no great matter, let me 
tell you : the main point is to win the suf- 
frages of wise men. Look ye, Doctor, 
mark well what I am going to say — but 
let this remain a secret between friends, 
and take care it does not transpire, or be- 



/ 



25* ' 

come the town talk of our neighbours — 
The Dean of our Chapter has favoured me 
with a sight of one of his publications. 
But what sort of a publication, think you ? 
!No sooner had I read it, than I was seized 
with such a panic, that I thought I should 
have swooned away. 

Glau. God bless us! How so, pray? 

Timm. I tell you, Doctor, it contained 
things unutterable, inconceivable, such as 
never yet entered into the imagination of 
man! This youngster finds himself ham- 
pered not in Europe only, like his elder 
brother, or in this vale of tears, like his 
pious mother, but, strange to tell ! even 
within the circumference of God's Cre- 
ation. All the energies of his soul, all his 
faculties of invention, are w holly engrossed 
with some transmundane system. 

Glau, Then I must needs confess, he 
soars beyond my ken. I have never heard 
speak of such a thing. Pray what sort of 
a world is this ? 

Timm. Why, Doctor, as much as I 
can learn from this publication, the Nortk 



255 



American solitudes of his brother were truly 
Elysian fields, when compared with this 
invisible world of his Creation. His bro- 
ther marched upon solid ground, had a 
sun to shine upon him, a current of air to 
refresh his animal spirits : but this poor 
wight is so forlorn, so bereft of every thing, 
reduced to such deplorable beggary, that he 
is in a state of absolute want and starva- 
tion ; he has not so much as one.paltry inch 
of space, or one particle of time to bless 
himself with ; he must first of all borrow 
them from his bankrupt reason. 

Glau. But this is quite unintelligible 
to me. May I craye an example byway 
of illustration ? 

Timm. With all my heart! I will freely 
communicate whatever I can recollect. Pos- 
sibly you may imagine that this outward 
tabernacle which you carry about you is a 
body ? What say you ? 

Glau. Most assuredly ! 

Timm. Farther, you imagine that you 
have a head, a breast, a belly, arms, and 
legs ? 

Glau. How the deuce ! Surely he would 



256 



not persuade me to the contrary ! My 
senses tell me so. 

Timm. Pshaw ! Don't deceive yourself 
with such a silly conceit. 'Tis all a dream. 
Nay, who knows whether it be your own 
dream or the dream of some other person ? 
For it is not quite sure yet whether you exist. 

Glau. Lord have mercy upon us ! Is he 
in his senses ? 

Timm. God forbid that it should be 
otherwise ! A philosopher to be out of his 
senses ! What an idea was there, Doctor ! 
However, you need not absolutely despair 
about your existence. For as long as my 
son continues to enjoy the use of his in- 
tellects, he will contrive some scheme or 
other for your safety. 

Glau. I begin to be seriously alarmed 
about his intellects. 

Timm. I have some secret misgivings 
myself, I can assure you ! But he has 
nothing more to do than to think in good 
earnest, and whilst he is in the act of 
thinking he can call you forth into being. 

Glau. You amaze me! I am an old 
man. How can he create me afresh ? 



957 



Timm. Do you conceive it to be im* 
possible? He can achieve far greater mi- 
racles than this. He can create me, who 
am his father. Besides, he can create 
heaven and earth, the sun, the moon, the 
land and ocean: all that you see above 
and beneath you are the offspring of his 
creation. In short, his reasoning faculty 
resembles the little box of old grannam 
Nixus He only need whirl it about, 
pronounce some old adage in the form of 
an incantation, and any thing ^vill bounce 
out of if- whatever you please. I mortally 
dread, Doctor, that one time or another ho 
'will construct a little Bedlam for himself, 
where, if his father should chance to be- 
hold him, the spectacle would overwhelm 
him with unspeakable anguish. 

Glaii. Poor Mr. Timm, how peculiarly 
distressing is your case ! How greatly are 
you to be pitied! But what does your son 
suppose will become of this mundane sys- 
tem after his death ? 



* See the Nymph of the Fountain, in cc Popular Tale-, 
of the Germans," by Musseus, 



Thnnii *He may possibly think thai 
people will say, that it did once exist. 

Glau. That is strange indeed ! I thought 
it had b$en made of more durable ma- 
terials! 

Timm. Nearer fear, Doctor. He will 
create a new-fledged generation of necro- 
mancers, whom he will initiate in the art 
of sporting with their reason, as if they 
were whirling about a dice-box. 

Glau. Well then! Thank God, every 
thing will be preserved upon the old 
footing. To confess the truth, Mr. Timni, 
I had some scruples and qualms of corn- 
science in the beginning ; but now I see 
you are perfectly right, and that your pro- 
perty cannot with any safety be deposited 
in such hands. I shall go and execute 
your Will immediately. 

Timm. Do so, Doctor! And when 
you have dispatched this business, and the 
witnesses are all in readiness, then let death 
overtake me when it will, I am perfectly 
satisfied, The calamity of my sons, I must 
needs confess, has somewhat embittered mj 
£ife« The one has disturbed my repose - 9 by 



259 

Ms American projects ; the other, by his 
speculations in the invisible world. The 
one has lost all the worldly chattels and 
substance he ever possessed ; the other has 
been cruelly despoiled of that small portion 
of common sense which he could boast of. 



TOBY WITT. 

Mr. Toby Witt was a native of a 
small provincial town. He had never been 
a great traveller, and had never wandered 
beyond the confines of the circumjacent 
villages. Nevertheless, he had seen more 
of the world than many a great man who 
has expended his whole patrimony on a 
fashionable jaunt to Paris or Naples. He 
was accustomed to relate many little anec- 
dotes, which he had collected from his 
own observations. Although these anec- 
dotes displayed no great powers of genius 
or invention, they possessed a considerable 
share of practical merit, and were chiefly 
remarkable on this account, that they were 
coupled together, two and two at a time. 

One of his young acquaintance, a certain 
Mr. Till, once passed some handsome com- 
pliments upon his prudence. " Hem !" 
cried old Witt, stuttering: u Do you 
actually take me for such a wiseacre 



261 



Till. All the world says so, Mr. Witt, 
and I should be glad to be tutored by you. 

Witt. W ould you ? Well then, nothing 
ran be more easy ! You have nothing more 
to do than to attend to the manners and 
behaviour of fools. 

Till. How so, pray ? 
Witt. Even so, Mr. Till, and not other- 
wise. And then you must adopt a dif- 
ferent line of conduct. 

Till. May I crave an example, by "way 
of illustration ? 

Witt. I can accommodate you with 
one, Mr. Till. When I was young, there 
lived in this town an old Arithmetician, 
one Mr. Veit, a meagre, morose sort of a 
body. He used to be gadding about, mut- 
tering to himself, but never spoke so much 
as one syllable to any of bis neighbours, 
much less did he look them in the fece j 
for he was always busily engaged in con- 
templating his own dear self. What do 
you suppose, Mr. Till, that people used to 
bay of him? 

Till. Why, no doubt, that he was a 
shrewd; long-headed fellow. 

s 3 



2&2 

Witt. You are somewhat beyond the 
mark. They called him a fool. Humph ! 
said I, within myself; for this sort of titu- 
lar honours was not quite after my taste— 
I must not take after Mr. Veit. That will 
never do. What! to be always gazing at 
one's self! That is not well bred. Again, to 
be muttering to one's self! Fie upon it! 
You ought; to be sociable, and converse 
with your neighbours. What is your 
opinion 5 Mr. Till? Did not I judge 
rightly ? 

TilL Unquestionably you were in the 
right. 

Witt. I am not quite sure of that. Per- 
haps not exactly so. There was another 
person who used to be gadding about, one 
Mr. Finical, a dancing-master. This man 
would stare every body in the face, and 
would harangue every one in his turn, wha 
had patience to listen to him* Now- Mr, 
Till, what title do you suppose people be-- 
stowed upon him r 

TilL Doubtless they would call him* a 
gay, merry companion* 

Witt. You are not wide of the mark. 



m 

They called liira a fool. There's for you 
again ! said 1 within myself. This is 
pleasant enough. How must you con- 
trive if you would have the world call 
Von a wise man? You must neither take' 
Mr. Veit nor yet Mr. Finical for your mo- 
del. First of all, you must look people full 
in the face like the one, and then you must 
stedfastly contemplate your own person 
like the other. First of all, you must con- 
Tferse aloud with your neighbours, like Mr. 
Finical, and afterwards' you roust com- 
mune with yourself, like Mr. Veit. Look 
ye, Mr. Till, such was my mode of reason- 
ing, and this is the whole mystery. 

Another time he was visited by a younj; 
merchant, one Mr. Flau, who with a rueful 
countenance began piteously to lament Ins 

misfortunes; ,, . , , 

« What avails au this, Mr. Flau ? cried 

old Witt, tapping him upon the shoulder : 
« You must be alert, and make a diligent 
search after fortune; You must be upon 
the look-out!" 

Flau. That I have done this long time, • 
but all to no purpose. One unlucky blow 



261 

followed upon the heels of another. Here- 
after I shall throw ray arms across, and 
rest quietly at home. 

Witt. There you are wrong again, Mr. 
Flau ! You must be on the look-out, I tell 
you 5 but only have a care how you carry 
your head. 

Flau. How so, pray? 
Wilt. Even so, Mr. Flau, as 1 told you 
before. You must have a care how you 
carry your head. I will explain myself. 
When my left hand neighbour was building 
his house, the whole street was strewed over 
with bricks, - beams, and rubbish. Now, 
who should happen to be passing that way 
but our Mayor, Mr. Trick, who was then 
a young blood of an Alderman. He came 
tripping along, helter-skelter, with his 
arms dangling at his side, bearing his head 
so high that his nose projected towards the 
clouds. Before he was aware, his heels 
were tript up; he lay sprawling upon the 
lumber, broke one of his legs, and limps 
to this very day. Do you comprehend 
my meaning, Mr. Flau ? 

Flau. You allude to the old adage ; . 



§63 

* ; Have a care not to carry your noddle 
too high." 

WiiU Exactly so. But you must also 
beware of bearing it too low. 

For much about the same time another 
person happened to pass the same way. 
This was no other than the poet, Mr. Schall. 
"Whether he was spouting some verses or 
brooding over his houshold cares, I cannot 
pretend to say : he came slowly jogging 
onwards with a rueful aspect, slouching 
gait, and downcast eyes, as though he 
would fain bury himself in the earth. Crack 
goes one of the ropes ! and bounce comes 
one of the beams tumbling about his ears. 
Luckily he was not hurt, but the poor 
devil was so terrified that he fainted away, 
fell sick, and was confined to his bed for 
many weeks. Do you comprehend my 
meaning, Mr. Flau ? How would you 
carry your head ? 

Flau. I would observe a just medium. 

Witt. Exactly so. We must neither 
cock our eye tco fiercely at the clouds, 
nor yet let it sink too submissively towards 
the earth. When we lock about us in such 



£69 



placid manner, when we look above, 
beneath, and on either side of us, then we 
mky get on in the world, and no mischance 
will easily befal us. 

A young tradesman, one Mr. Wills, 
once waited upon Mr. Witt, being desirous 
to borrow a sum of money from him for 
seme petty speculation or other.- 

u 1 am sensible, Sir," said he to old 
Witt, •* that- this- speculation will not turn 
out to be a very lucrative one ; however, 
as it happens to be so very opportune and 
imlooked for, 1 should be glad to make the 
most of it." Old W itt did not quite re- 
lish the manner of expression. 

" Pray, -my dear Mr. Wills," said he, 
u how much money, think you, would 
serve yourturn r" 

Wills. It is no great matter. A mere 
trifle : about one hundred dollars. 

Witt. Well, if it be no more I will 
readily satisfy your demand, and to con- 
vince you how much I have your interest at 
heart, I will make you a present cf some- 
thing else into the bargain, which (between 
friends) is well worth a thousand rix-dollars. 



967 



Wilts. Pray explain yourself, my dear 
Mr. Witt. 

Witt. It is of no great consequence. 
It is only a short story. When I was 
young, I had a whimsical sort of a fellow 
for a neighbour, one Mr. Grell. This man 
had constantly a cant phrase in his -mouth, 
which at length proved his undoing'. 

Wills. You amaze me ! I should be 
glad to know this phrase. 

Witt. When his acquaintance would 
occasionally accost him, and say i " Welly 
Mr. Grell,. how does business go on; how 
much did you gain by this last concern?^ 
"Pshaw!" he would answer, " a mere 
trifle; some fifty dollars. But what of- 
that?" Again when he was asked, u how 
much have you lost by the late bank« 
ruptcy IP' " Pshaw !" he would exclaim ;.- 
" it is hardly worth speaking of, A mere- 
trifle. Some five per cent." lie was a 
warm man, I can assure you, . but this 
cursed phrase proved his ruin. It pre- 
sently obliged him to decamp with bag 
and baggage. What was the- sum, Mr, 
Wills; which you had occasion for \ 



Wills. I requested the loan of one hun- 
dred rix-dollars, my dear Mr. Witt. 

Witt. Exactly so. My memory is trea- 
cherous. But I had another neighbour, 
one Mr. Toram, a corn-factor. By means 
of another phrase, this man built the large 
house you see yonder, with all the offices 
and warehouses. What say you to that ? 

Wills. That is strange indeed ! You 
excite my curiosity to learn this phrase. 

Witt. When they accosted him, say- 
ing; " Well, Mr. Tomm, how does busi- 
ness go on? What did you gain by this 
last concern?" u A good round sum of 
money!" he would answer; " A good 
round sum ! I can assure you :" at the 
same time you might see him in high glee, 
capering with joy. u No less than a cool 
hundred I can assure you !" Again, when 
his acquaintance would accost him and 
say : " What ails you, Mr. Tomm ? Why 
are you so sad to-day ?" u Alas !" was his 
answer : 46 I have lost a round sum of 
money; a good round sum! Some fifty 
rix-dollars." This man began the world 
tvith a very small capital, but now, as I 



269 



told you before, he lias built yonder large 
Louse with all its offices and warehouses. 
Now Mr. Wilis, which of these phrases 
is best suited to your taste ? 

Wills. Why of course the last of them. 

Witt, But methinks this Mr. Tomni 
does not quite please me. He had a knack 
of saying a good round sum of money, 
when he was paying his poor-rates or his 
taxes to government : on such occasions, 
methinks, lie would have done better to 
have employed the phrase of my other 
neighbour, Mr. Grell. For my part, Mr. 
Wills, as they were my neighbours, I 
have carefully treasured up both their 
phrases, and according to the circum- 
stances of time and place, I sometimes 
speak like Mr. Grell and sometimes like 
Mr. Tomm. 

Wills. Not I, upon my soul! I am 
decidedly for Mr. Tomm's phrase. His 
house and warehouses are quite to my taste. 

Witt. What was your demand, Mr* 
Wills? 

Wills. A good round sum of monej ! 



270 

A good round sum ! No less than one hun- 
dred dollars! 

Witt. Look ye ? Mr. Wills, you seem 
to have learnt your catechism pretty welh 
Your answer was perfectly just. When 
we borrow money of a friend, me must 
speak like Mr. Tomm, and when w r e suc- 
cour a friend in distress, we must adopt the 
phrase of Mr. GreiL 



ELIZABETH HILT 



Lady Elizabeth Hill was a rich 3 
young widow, at a small provincial town 
of Swabia. It was a matter of infinite dif- 
ficulty to come at her real character ; for 
her Ladyship was never what she appeared 
to be, but was constantly playing a double 
game, and was incessantly assuming some 
new shape and complexion. As long as a 
certain Aulic Counsellor continued to re- 
side in the town, who had a strange pre- 
dilection for polite literature, she did no- 
thing from morning till night but read 
novels and romances. 

When this gentleman made his final 
exit, a doctor of medicine occupied his 
place, who was passionately addicted to 
balls, assemblies and entertainments ; and 
now her Ladyship laid her books aside, 
and devoted her whole time to dress and 
dancing. Last of all, it pleased the reign** 



272 



ing prince to send a pious dignitary of the 
church called a Superintendant, to this 
town, which had never before known a 
personage of such a reverend character. 
Her Ladyship was now clad in a sober suit 
of mourning, and her house became the 
rendezvous of religious conventicles. 

The learned gentlemen of the town were 
divided in their sentiments touching this 
sudden revolution in the carriage of Lady 
Hill, and broached three several opinions 
upon the subject. 

The Rector of the school (who was a wit 
and a man of fine parts, and who was more- 
over engaged in the publication of a literary 
journal) without giving the subject a mo- 
ment's consideration, roundly and positively 
declared that Lady Hill had no character 
at all, and that a poet could neither pro- 
duce her to advantage in a novel, nor upon 
the stage. 

The Superintendant and the spiritual 
gentry speculated a great deal upon the 
subject; but as to the theatre or novels* 
they never once entered into their contem- 
plation. Lady Hill, they said, has been 



273 



carnally minded ; liavlng first of all been 
much addicted to the perusal of ungodly 
books, and having been subsequently be- 
trayed into overt-acts of grosser impiety, 
by dancing and capering at public balls. 
But now she is awakened by the grace of 
God, and her conversion is sincere. 

The Doctor only contemplated the ani- 
mal system of Lady Hill, leaving the con- 
cerns of her soul quite out of the question, 
without either usurping the office of a critic 
or a divine. 

" This Lady," said he, " has impaired 
her constitution, first of all, by much read- 
ing and study ; and secondly, by nocturnal 
revels. A slight course of bleeding and a 
frequent use of mineral waters in the spring, 
might be of service to her." 

These gentlemen therefore had respec- 
tively adopted their separate systems, or in 
other words, they had provided themselves 
with painted glasses, which prevented them 
from beholding any object distinctly, but 
made it appear all of one colour and com- 
plexion. 

T 



274 



Now/the other citizens of the town ? 
conscious of the imperfection of their own 
organs of sight, were accustomed to repose 
implicit confidence in the glasses of these 
gentlemen ; each of them accordingly es- 
poused one or the other of their opinions, 
as he happened to be connected with them 
by the bonds of private interest. 

The bookbinder, who had earned a decent 
sum of money, by fitting up a large mass 
of spiritual quartos and folios in a superb 
style for the use of Lady Hill, declared 
himself an advocate for the favourable opi- 
nion of the clergy, and sincerely congra- 
tulated her upon her conversion. 

The tailor, whose profits had been for- 
merly very considerable, but who had now 
lost all his custom, adopted the uncivil 
hypothesis of the Doctor, and exaggerated 
a slight fit of melancholy into downright 
madness. 

The shoemaker, who had only lost one 
moiety of his former earnings, espoused 
the more moderate sentiments of the Rec- 
tor ? and only lamented that such a good 



975 



lady as Madam Hill should be so very 
fickle, inasmuch as she did not know her 
own mind. 

There was only one man in the whole 
town (a linen-draper by trade* a man quite 
of a vulgar stamp, but who had never im- 
paired the natural goodness of his sight by 
the use of optical glasses, having no deal- 
ings with Lady Hill, as her ladyship was 
accustomed to wear Dutch linen) who dis- 
covered more sagacity than all these poli- 
ticians, and viewed the subject in a proper 
light. 

One Sabbath day, these citizens being 
assembled together at the tavern, their 
usual place of rendezvous, the bookbinder, 
fetching a profound sigh, broke out into 
this pious ejaculation : " the grace of God 
has wrought miracles upon Lady Hill !" 

Hereupon the linen-draper flatly contra- 
dicted him, asserting that grace had no 
concern at all in the business. In like man- 
ner he contradicted the tailor, who sup- 
posed shQ had lost her senses ; and also t he 
shoemaker, who bitterly complained that 
she did not know her own mind. 

t 2 



276 



66 This lady," said be, cc knows very 
well what she is about, and if all of you, 
good people, had the proper use of your 
eyesight, you might also know her mind 
full as well as she does. 

u When the late Aulic Counsellor was 
alive, pray who was the most respectable 
man in our town ? The Aulic Counsellor, 
to be sure! Now, upon his demise, when 
■the Doctor came to reside here, pray who 
was the person, before whom all of us were 
accustomed to bow and take off our hats ? 
The Doctor, to be sure ! Again, when our 
liege Sovereign thought fit to appoint a Su- 
perintendant in this town, pray who was 
the person that supplanted the Doctor in 
his dignity ? Who, but the Su perintendant 
himself? Let us gravely consider these 
circumstances, good people, and then we 
shall presently find the clue to the whole 
mystery." 

The citizens laughed at the joke, and 
were all of opinion, that although appear- 
ances might be against him, the little linen- 
draper was a shrewd long-headed fellow. 
This gave him no small satisfaction ; for 



lie was always pleased when he thought he 
was in the right. 

" Gentlemen," said he (striking the table 
with his fist), « if the Superintendant should 
happen to die, and no other should come 
to supply his place, I'll forfeit my life 
upon it, that the lady will side with the 
Doctor again." 

This did not however exactly come to 
pass, but another revolution took place. 
For the prince, who was a very godly per- 
sonage, recalled the Superintendant to court 
in order to make him his Confessor. Shortly 
afterwards, he quartered a regiment upon 
the town, the command of which he en- 
trusted to a Major, who was a fine person- 
able sort of a man. -Before one mouth had 
elapsed, the Major began to dine with 
Lady Hill, and Lady Hill returned tho 
compliment at the Major's house. 

Now the Major's wife was greatlv ad- 
mired by the whole town, on account of 
her elegant shape and noble deportment, 
whenever she was mounted on horseback. 
Lady Hill, who was no less confident of 
her own personal accomplishments, took 
t3 



278 

care to have a horse ready saddled for her 
in the stable, and rode out along wit* the 
Major's lady, m a green habit, bespangled 
with gold lace. 

" This lady has no character at an . 
exclaimed the Rector, with a triumphant 
air, whilst she was passing by his school. 

« This lady is no longer under the in- 
fluences of grace," said a clergyman, who 
^as returning from a visitation of the sick. 

" The lady now observes a proper regi- 
men, and takes exercise," said the Doctor, 
who was smoking a pipe at his own door. 
« There is no fear, but she will recover her 
health." 

In this manner did these gentlemen en- 
deavour to justify their respective systems ; 
insomuch that the very circumstance winch 
aught to have confuted their ideas, only 
served to confirm them. But the linen- 
draper was more fortunate in his conjec- 
tures; for as Lady Hill met him upon the 
bleaching-green, he said within himself, 
shaking his head : « Behold what vanity 

can do !" . 
Reader ! You may laugh as much as 



279 



you please at my little story. It has how- 
ever the merit of being true ; and if you 
are accustomed to sound and accurate re- 
mark, many observations will occur, to 
which it will apply. 



2S0 



THE VISION OF GALILEO, 

AN ALLEGORY: 

EMBLEMATICAL OF THOSE INTELLECTUAL PLEASURES 
DERIVED rrOQM SCIENCE. 



Galileo*, after Laving acquired im- 
mortal reputation in the paths of Science^ 
consumed the remainder of an honourable 
old age at his villa near Arcetri, in the ter- 
ritory of Florence. Although bereft- of his 
noblest organ of perception, he was still 
conscious of the blessings of spring : his 



* Galilee was twice summoned to the bar of the In- 
quisition at Rome, for having vindicated the system of 
Copernicus, which appeared to be repugnant to the 
doctrines of Holy Writ. After his second summons, he 
suffered a long imprisonment, and was kept in a cruel 
suspense with regard to his final destiny. At length he 
was released, on condition that he should never venture 
to quit the territory of Florence. His important disco- 
veries in astronomy, which he made either alone or con- 
jointly with others, are mentioned in this Vision, 



281 



sensibility was awakened by the return of 
Philomela, by the fragrance of a blooming 
Creation, and by a lively recollection of 
former fruition. In the last spring of his 
pilgrimage upon earth, he was conducted 
byViviani, one of his youngest and most 
affectionate disciples, into the plains ad- 
joining to Arcetri. Suspecting from the 
lassitude of his body, that he had already 
strayed somewhat too far, he jocosely cau- 
tioned his conductor not to lead him be- 
yond the confines of the Florentine terri- 
tory ; " for," added he, with a smile, « you 
know the sacred pledge I have given to the 
Holy Inquisition." 

In order to invigorate his animal spirits, 
Viviani made him repose upon a sloping 
eminence, where, in close contact with 
blossoms and herbs, being encompassed 
around with a profuse shower of odoriferous 
sweets, he recollected with what lively so- 
licitude he had once regretted at Rome the 
absence of liberty, on the approach of 
spring. 

He was just going to empty the vial of 
his wrath upon the heads of his implacable 



282 



persecutors, when suddenly refraining, he 
reprimanded himself in the following tern|s s 
" The spirit of Copernicus will be angry." 

Viviani, being unacquainted with the 
Vision to which these words had a re- 
ference, requested an explanation. But 
the hoary sage, whose disordered nerves 
were oppressed with the humidity of the 
atmosphere, desired first of all to be con- 
ducted back to his dwelling, before he 
gratified his curiosity. 

" You are already acquainted, " he re- 
sumed, after a short interval of repose, 
44 with the peculiar hardships of my situ- 
ation at Rome, and how long the period 
of my enlargement was defered No sooner 
did I find that the powerful intercession of 
the Medicis, my patrons, nay, even that 
my own public recantation were equally 
unavailing, than once, being oppressed with 
gloomy meditations on my adverse destiny, 
and venting murmurs against Providence, 
I fell prostrate upon my couch. 

" As far as thy memory reaches," 1 
cried, u how irreproachable has been the 
tenour of thy life ! With what indefatigable 



283 

search hastthou explored the labyrinth . of 
error in quest of that light which eluded thy 
pursuit ! How vainly hast thou employed 
ail the energies of thy soul in order to sur- 
mount those barriers, which opposed thy 
progress to the Temple of Truth ; totrample 
under foot those inveterate prejudices which 
ehoked up the paths and avenues con- 
ducting towards this goall With what 
abstemiousness hast thou not oftentime* 
relinquished the luxuries of a board, spark- 
ling with generous viands which provoked 
hv appe^ie, or dashed from thy parched 
£ the goblet of rosy nectar which thou 
litpreparing <o quaff, in order to perform 
:;th P ala P crity thy intellectual nnctmns 
With what pious self-denial hast thou not 
consecrated the hours of repose to the Incu- 
bations of wisdom ! . 

« Whilst all thy fellow-mortals supinely 
abandoned themselves to repose, repairing 
their animal spirits for the revels of the en- 
suing day ; how often hast thou been 
shivering with frost, whilst stedfastly con- 
templating the wonders of the starry firma- 
ment! When the heavens were overcast 



With an opaque gloom, how often didst 
thou prolong thy vigils in order to pro- 
mulgate the glory of thy Maker, and to 
enlighten human kind! Unhappy man! 
What is the result of thy labours ? What 
the recompense for thy laudable exertions 
to proclaim the glory of thy Creator, or to 
illuminate mankind ? Grief has consumed 
the moisture of thy eyes: these faithful 
helpmates of thy soul languish by an im- 
perceptible decay, until their dim lights 
shall be totally extinguished by a briny 
torrent of tears, which thou canst no longer 
suppress. 

" Thus,. V T iviani, did I commune with 
myself; when suddenly turning my regards, 
hashing with indignation, towards jmy ad- 
versaries : Behold, cried I, those reptiles, 
disguising their wild conceits with flimsy 
cobwebs of sophistry, and shrouding their 
Vices in a majestic veil ! who, by way of 
apology for their indolence, promulgate 
human fictions as though they were the 
oracles of the Divinity ! who, in order to 
sleep in security, trample under foot the 
torch of reason, whenever a sage would 



285 



hold it before their eyes ! Behold those 
wretches, who only display their active 
functions in order to plot the destruction 
of mankind^ or to gratify their brutal ap- 
petites ! Behold how they deride affliction 
in the penetralia of their gorgeous palaces ! 
Behold how they consume their lives in a 
state of uninterrupted riot and intoxication ! 
Behold how they have despoiled merit 
of all her goods and chattels, nay even of 
honour, her most sacred attribute ! Behold 
them adored by the vulgar multitude with 
superstitious veneration ; by that very 
people from whom they have purloined the 
choicest fruits of their field, the fatlings of 
their flocks, and the juice of their grapes, 
in order to regale themselves with sump- 
tuous entertainments ! 

" But thou innocent martyr of an in- 
exQrable destiny ! whose life has been 
solely consecrated to thy God and to the 
purposes of thy calling! whose soul has 
never been actuated by any other passion, 
save only by the most sacred of all, the 
love of truth! who hast approved thyself 
a far better apostle of thy God, by pro- 



286 



claiming his glorious handy-work not only 
in this mundane system, but also in the 
mechanism of a worm ! Must thou be de- 
spoiled of one single blessing, in which all 
thy wishes are concentered? A blessing 
which the beasts of the forest and the fowls 
of Heaven enjoy. Must thou forego the 
blessing of liberty ? Where is that omnis- 
cient ken, which overlooks the destinies of 
humanity ; that impartial hand, which 
distributes the blessings of life in equal 
proportions ? 

" Thus did I continue to expectorate 
my sorrows, until my eyelids were sealed 
in slumbers; whereupon, methought, the 
reverend figure of a sage advanced towards 
my couch. He paused awhile, surveying 
ane with looks of divine complacency, 
whilst I gazed with silent admiration at his 
contemplative brow, and the silver locks 
that shaded his visage. 4 Galileo V said 
he (after a long interval of repose), ' thou 
hast suffered martyrdom for the sake of 
those truths which I have taught thee ! 
The same fiends of Superstition which 
fcave*disturbed thy repose, would likewise 



287 



have tormented me, had not death placed 
me beyond their reach, and transported 
me to the realms of everlasting liberty.' — 
i Thou art Copernicus!' cried I, and 
without waiting for his reply, I instantly 
folded him in my fraternal embrace. 

" T Iow delightful, my dear Yiviani, is 
that affectionate web of cons nguinity which 
ISature hath woven! But how far more 
delightful is the consanguinity of kindred 
souls ! How far more affectionate are the 
indissoluble bonds of truth than the ties 
of fraternal love ! With what conscious 
sensibility do we not anticipate the sphere 
of our activity enlarged, the energies of 
jouy soul exalted, our intellectual treasures 
augmented by a liberal interchange of 
ideas, when we indulge in social converse 
with a friend on the sacred truths of 
wisdom ! 

" c Behold !' exclaimed the sage, after 
having returned the warm transports of 
my embrace ; 6 I have re-assumed that 
vizor of mortality, in which I was here- 
tofore enshrined, and will henceforward, 
both now and hereafter, be thy spiritual 



2S8 



guide and guardian. For in those regions , 
where our minds prosecute with uninter- 
rupted activity their intellectual labours, 
repose consists in the rotation and variety 
of our occupations. We occasionally relax 
in our inquiries into the unfathomable 
depths of everlasting wisdom, in order to 
impart instruction to the sons of men who 
join our social communion ; and I am the 
person who will hereafter undertake the 
office of initiating thee into the mysterious 
attributes of the eternal.' Hereupon taking 
me by the hand, he conducted me towards 
a cloud, which descended on our approach, 
and instantly conveyed us with incredible 
velocity into the spacious fields of Ether. 
There, Yiviani, I surveyed the moon with 
her mountains and valleys ; I beheld the 
constellations of the milky way, of the 
Pleiades and of Orion ; I contemplated 
the spots of the sun, and the satellites of 
Jupiter : in short, whatever I had formerly 
discovered in this sublunary world, I be- 
held then far more distinctly with the 
naked eye : and whilst I traversed the 
Heavens, my bosom heaved with tran- 



§89 



sports of delight, upon surveying the am- 
phitheatre of my former discoveries, in like 
manner as some generous philanthropist, 
when he surveys the monuments of his 
own benevolence. Every hour consumed 
here in painful research and laborious in* 
vestigation, was then productive of heart- 
felt raptures ; of raptures, to which one is 
an entire stranger, whose soul enters the 
confines of eternity, unfurnished with this 
elementary knowledge. For this reason, 
my dear Viviani, I shall never relax, not 
even at my present advanced age, in my 
scientific inquiries ; for whoever has al- 
ready been engaged here in a pursuit after 
truth, will hereafter behold a paradise of 
sweets wheresoever he turns his regards. 
Every hypothesis which is confirmed, every 
doubt that is resolved, every mystery 
which is unravelled, every error that is 
rectified, produces a banquet of intellectual 
pleasure. 

" Such were my impressions during 
that interval of ecstatic rapture, but now 
I retain nothing, save only an inward con- 
sciousness of what I felt ; lor my sold, 
v 



2S0 7 



Dvenvhelmed with a variety of voluptuous 
sensations, was bewildered in the labyrinth 
of her conceptions. 

" Whilst I stood gazing at this specta* 
cle, absorbed in lofty speculations on the 
immensity of that Being, whose omnipo- 
tent wisdom created, and whose benevo- 
lence sustains this aggregate system of 
worlds, the conversation of my guide in- 
spired me witli sublimer notions. 

u 6 Thy imperfect organs of sense,' said 
he, ' cannot ascertain the boundaries of the 
universe, although a whole host of radiant 
suns, marshalled in magnificent array, 
whose orbits are absolutely indefinable, 
dawn upon thy sight. Myriads of others 
which thy glance cannot explore, illumine 
the fields of Ether. Each of these suns, 
together with all those planets moving 
within its vortex, is peopled with beings 
gifted with sensibility and intelligence. 
Wheresoever an orbit could be described 
for its evolutions, a planetary system re- 
volves, and wheresoever beings could taste 
the joys of existence, life vegetates and un- 
dulates around. There is not one dividend 



291 



throughout (lie immeasurable tracts of 
space, which the provident Creator has 
not vivified with the principles of life, or 
where he has not disseminated the stamina 
of existence: nay, amidst the diversified 
modifications of being, even to the mo$t in- 
significant mite, a regular design and order 
is conspicuous. Everlasting laws regulate 
the solar systems, the heavenly spheres and 
the terrestrial planets, and one universal 
symphony pervades the whole. 

u ' An immense fund of knowledge is 
treasured up for an immortal sage, and a 
fountain of bliss which is absolutely inex- 
haustible. But what avails it now, Galileo, 
to reveal this secret unto thee ? For a spirit 
cannot appreciate this unfathomable mys- 
tery of bliss, whilst it is encumbered with 
a sluggish tenement of clay ; whilst its mo- 
tions are retarded by this dull associate, 
or whilst it remains enchained to this 
groveling sphere whenever it would soar 
aloft. 5 

u Perchance," cried I, " I may not 
comprehend this bliss in full measure, or 
in its transcendant plenitude ; but most as-« 

v 2, 



292 



suredly, Copernicus, I already conceive 
something of its nature and of its essence. 
For what a rich intellectual banquet does 
not wisdom afford in this tenement of clay ! 
What cordial raptures, what exultation 
does it convey to the animal system, when 
the day star arises in our minds, and our 
ideas begin gradually to expand and de- 
velop themselves: when the torrent of 
light augments apace, until those meridian 
splendours of knowledge are arrived at 
their zenith, which disclose landscapes to 
our intellectual eye, glowing with tran- 
scendental beauty. Thou, who hast been 
so profoundly conversant in the mysteries 
of the Eternal, and hast expounded the vo- 
lume of Nature; recollect those moments, 
when thy mind projected the first bold, 
gigantic conception ; when all the energies 
of thy soul endeavoured to grasp, to illus- 
trate and reduce it unto a perfect consist- 
ency : when this noble conception was fully 
digested in exact symmetry and beautiful 
proportions, recollect with what affection- 
ate w 7 armtli of soul thou didst once more 
survey this glorious production of thy ge- 



293 



niiis, insomuch that thou wast conscious 
of some distant resemblance to the Divinity, 
in being able to decipher the hieroglyphic 
characters of his Creation ! Even so it is 5 
ray beloved Preceptor ! Even here upon 
earth, truth affords us an antepast of celes- 
tial joys; nay, if it were otherwise, why 
should we contemplate the vanities of this 
world with such supine indifference ? 

u The cloud which had hitherto borne 
us, descended to the earth, and methought 
it alighted on one of those hills, contiguous 
to the Roman metropolis. 

u We surveyed beneath us the Mistress 
of the World ; but w ith an emotion of sove- 
reign contempt, I extended my arm and 
exclaimed : 4 let the proud inmates of yon- 
der palaces indulge themselves in an over- 
weening conceit of their own grandeur, 
because forsooth their bodies are sumptu- 
ously arrayed in purple, or because the 
most costly utensils of gold or silver that 
Europe, or India can boast, decorate their 
boards ! But in like manner as the princely 
eagle, when he beholds the caterpillar im- 
prisoned in its silken dungeon; thus does 

TT Q 



294 



the sage Contemplate these infatuated 
slaves : for their souls are enthralled, inso- 
much that they cannot disengage them- 
selves from that groveling sphere to which 
they are enchained, whilst the sage is at 
liberty to range whersoever he will ; whilst 
he* stands upon a commanding eminence, 
whence he can survey the universe, or 
mounting aloft to his Maker on the pinions 
of imagination, can traverse the starry 
vault.' 

u When I had pronounced this rhapsody, 
Viviani, meth ought the brow of my conduc- 
tor was ruffled with a frown, his arm shrunk 
back from my shoulder, and his searching- 
eye darted upon rae a glance flashing with 
indignation. 4 Undeserving as thou art" 
(cried lie), c hast thou already enjoyed an 
antepast of celestial bliss ? Hast thou en- 
rolled thy name amongst the sages of anti- 
quity ? Hast thou already exalted the ener- 
gies of thy soul insomuch that they can 
operate more pbwerfully and more unem- 
barrassed throughout the endless ages of 
eternity ? And now that thy Maker hath 
vouchsafed to make thee suffer persecution; 



295 



in order to render thy wisdom meritorious, 
to engraft tlie fair progeny of the virtues 
upon thy heart, as thy mind is adorned 
with the flowers of knowledge : is the re- 
collection of former fruition suddenly ob- 
literated from the soul, and dost thou ar- 
raign the dispensations of thy God ?' 

u Hereupon 1 awoke from my dream, 
and found myself suddenly translated from 
the superlative glories of the firmament to 
my former dismal dungeon. Bathing my 
couch with a briny torrent of tears, I lifted 
up my eyes, amidst the shades of night 
towards Heaven, and exclaimed : ' O thou 
God of mercy and benevolence ! Has a 
particle of dust into which thou hast in- 
fused a soul, appropriated to its own merits 
what was purely the gift of thy mercy I 
Has a wretch whom thou hast fostered in 
thy bosom, and hast nourished with such 
copious streams of bliss, proved so un- 
grateful as to forget thy benefits ? If my 
dim lights were totally extinguished, 
should I no longer hear the voice of friend- 
ship, and remain for ever buried in this 
dungeon; nevertheless, I would not repine, 
u 4 



296 



but cheerfully support all these hardships, 
being mindful of those joys which I have 
already tasted, or -which are still reserved 
in store for me in the endless ages of 
eternity !' 

" I expectorated my whole soul, Vi- 
vianij in this prayer: but that God who 
created me for the fruition of bliss, vouch- 
safed to overlook my ingratitude, and to 
accept my penitential resignation. For lo! 
I reside here at Arcetri, in the bosom of 
happiness and of liberty ; nay, this very day 
thy own hand has seated me amidst the 
flowers of spring." 

He was just groping about in order to 
seize the hand of his disciple, and testify his 
gratitude by a gentle compressure, when 
Yitfiani spontaneously taking the hand of 
his preceptor, pressed it to his lips, 



297 



THE HAWK: 

A DISCOURSE OS THE INTRODUCTION OF PREDATOKT 
ANIMALS INTO THE REALM OF NATURE. 

" Infernal depredator!" exclaimed 
the moody Tuff, somewhat peevishly, when 
a hawk darting swiftly down, masscred a 
poor chicken before his eyes. The piteous 
accent with which he pronounced this eja- 
culation made his neighbour smile. It was 
just for all the world, as if he felt the 
talons of the depredator perforating his own 
breast. 

« Friend," said his neighbour, " if all 
carnivorous animals who commit depreda- 
tions upon chickens provoke your spleen, 
I should be glad to know how you can be 
reconciled to yourself? For a moment's 
consideration will teach you, that you are 
the most unmerciful hawk in this neigh- 
bourhood." 

Now Ave must observe that Mr. Tuff, 
being a worthy disciple of Law or Newton, 



298 



regaled himself with no other luxuries than 
with the flesh of fowls. 

" All other flesh/' said his physician, 
u created indigestion, and vegetables in- 
fallibly produced a bilious habit." 

Conscious of the truth of this remark, it 
only served to augment his uneasiness. 

" My case is peculiarly distressing!" 
said he: u I am a poor, infirm valetudi- 
narian, who cannot subsist without the 
flesh of fowls." 

Neighbour. The Hawk is exactly in the 
same predicament, dear Mr. Tuff. His 
physician is Nature. Nature enjoins him 
to abstain from vegetables, because they 
do not agree with his animal system. 

This argument, which placed the Hawk 
exactly in the same predicament as himself, 
was so powerful and convincing, that Tuff 
was completely silenced, and could no 
longer start any reasonable object ion s . With - 
out farther ceremony, he turned about, and 
looking towards the spot where the murder 
had been perpetrated, he made reparation 
to the depredator for his abusive language, 
by a handsome apology. 



299 

After a short pause, he subjoined with 
a groan, "Alas! what a system does 
Nature pursue!"— Hereupon he made a 
wonderful display of the powers of his 
memory (although by the bye he would 
fain persuade himself that he was bereft of 
this faculty), by summing up a long cata- 
logue of carnivorous animals, for which he 
ransacked all the elements and all the zones 
of the habitable globe. Towards the con- 
clusion of this rehearsal, he exclaimed, 
" Is not Nature a most unmerciful parent ? 
Do not the most glaring inconsistencies 
prevail throughout all her works ?" 

Neighbour. How so pray, Mr. Tuff? 
Bethink yourself, I beseech you, what must 
be the consequence of this assertion! If 
Nature were guilty of inconsistencies, this 
mundane system could not subsist. 

Tuff. Why should this follow of 
course? It does subsist, in like manner as 
my body, notwithstanding all its diseases. 
Now diseases argue some incongruity in 
the construction or mechanism of a ma- 
chine. _ 
Neighbour. But consider, Mr. lutt, 



300 



your body is perishable, whereas Nature 
is incorruptible. 

The man was too heavily depressed with 
the load of his own infirmities, that he 
could readily assent to the truth of this 
observation. Finding himself circumvented 
on all sides, he made a retrograde move- 
vent, and began to travel the same ground 
over again. 

" Wherefore," said he, u are those 
benevolent instincts implanted in a hen, 
to hatch her eggs, to cherish her brood 
with genial warmth, to feed, caress, and 
protect them — if some ravenous depredator 
be lowering over her head, marking his 
prey with a subtle, prying glance, and 
then darting downwards with incredible 
velocity to perpetrate a foul murder ? Does 
not this argue a strange absurdity in the 
animal creation ?" 

Neighbour. Well, be it so! I will 
grant you this point, Mr. Tuff. But when 
your ears ring with an unpleasant tingling, 
where do you suppose that this tingling 
has its seat ? Do you suppose it to be seated 
in the church-steeple or in your own ears ? 



SOI 



Tuff. That is a strange question! Why, 
to be sure in my own ears. 

Neighbour. And whence, think you, 
does it proceed ? 

Tuff. Possibly from the weakness of my 
nerves. 

Neighbour. Well then ! Let us apply 
this to the case before us. Those incon- 
gruities you complained of, exist only in 
your brain, and proceed from the weakness 
of your intellect. 

Tuff. 1 am willing to believe that this 
may possibly be the case. Now, to con- 
fess the truth, my dear friend, with such 
disordered nerves as mine, it were batter 
for me not to exist at all. 1 am only con- 
scious of existence by being tormented with 
disagreeable sensations. When our reason 
is so deplorably impotent, 1 should be 
glad to know whether it would not be 
better to possess none at all ? We are only 
conscious of the existence of this principle 
by sceptical doubts or by mental uneasiness. 

Neighbour. But what says your phy- 
sician, when you acquaint him with your 
morbid symptoms ? 



302 



Tuff. He advises me to pluck up my 
courage and to be of good cheer. 

Neighbour. Well said, upon my soul! 
You only lack for courage. A small por- 
tion of confidence in your own corporeal 
energies, and a diligent application of these 
energies to useful purposes, would presently 
restore you, 1 will not say, to a florid state 
of health, but however, to the fruition of a 
more tolerable and comfortable existence. 
With regard to your reason, my dear Tuff, 
the case is perfectly analogous. You need 
only confide in your intellectual energies, 
or employ them upon all occasions, and you 
will arrive at a climax of competent know- 
ledge, although perhaps not perfectly free 
from doubt and perplexity. Make for once 
an experimental application of your intel- 
lectual powers to the present subject. Make 
a candid exposition of those inconsisten- 
cies, concerning which you so hea vily com- 
plained. 

Tuff. Would not such a statement be 
superfluous ? Are they not manifest and 
clear as daylight? When I contemplate 
Kature on one side only, I behold nothing 



303 



but wisdom, providential care, and mater- 
nal tenderness. I observe the most admi- 
rable arrangements for the conservation of 
the species, the most sagacious dispositions 
for the safeguard of vital principles and of 
the animal economy ; organs the most ap- 
propriate imaginable, both for the disco- 
very and the detention of sustenance ; I oh* 
serve ail the elements combining their collec- 
tive energies in producing nourishment ; I 
behold countless receptacles of generation, 
and mighty instincts implanted in mothers 
and their offspring, for the conservation of 
the species. 

But on the other hand, how dismal, how 
ferocious and tyrannical is the aspect of 
Nature ! What a multitude of savage ? 
blood-thirsty animals, equipped and ac- 
coutred for the shedding of blood ! How 
many ravenous jaws and armed talons! 
How many destructive cobwebs and trea- 
cherous snares ! How many envenomed 
tongues and slings! When I observe all 
this, I say, my reason is staggered, and 
I am at a loss to decide whether my 
heart is more powerfully swayed by sensa* 



304 



tions of delight, or of disgust and abhor- 
rence. 

Neighbour. If I do not mistake your 
meaning', Mr. Tuff, you would insinuate 
that Nature acts after the same outrageous 
manner as the proprietor of this estate. 
It would seem that in his judgment the 
circumjacent landscape was formerly too 
dreary and open ; lie was therefore desirous 
to confine the perspective by a shady grove, 
for which purpose he appropriated a tract 
of hind, whereupon lie planted fir trees. 
Now, that these young trees wave their 
stately summits on high, and afford a desi- 
rable shade, what mode of conduct does 
he adopt ? He employs workmen, most 
unmercifully applies the axe to their 
roots, and hews down one moiety of the 
grove. 

" You are mistaken, in your conjec- 
tures P cried Tuff. " This lopping of the 
wood was necessary for the conservation of 
the grove. If the trees were suffered to 
run wild, there would presently be an end 
to all vegetation. One part would choke 
the growth of the other. In the end, we 



205 

should behold the grove dwindle away to a 
very diminutive size. 

Neighbour. Are you seriously persuaded 
that this would actually take place? Well 
then ! you have furnished us with an ex- 
ample, that an end is sometimes accom- 
plished by means diametrically repugnant. 
Let us first of all inquire into the ultimate 
scope and design of the Creation. Wherein 
think you is it seated : in inert matter, or 
in organized being and animated nature ? 

Tuff. Unquestionably we must suppose 
it to be wholly placed in organized being 
and animated nature. 

Neighbour. Exactly so. Consequently, 
If the conservation of the vital energies in- 
herent in animated nature render such sa- 
crifices indispensably requisite ; is not the 
economy of Providence perfectly vindi- 
cated ? What say you to that ? For doubt- 
less you only desire to behold so many 
living beings as can reasonably subsist? 
And doubtless you would also desire to be- 
hold these beings endued with a proportion 
of life as full and ample as they can pos- 
sibly be blest with ? 

x 



S06 



Tuff. Unquestionably! If I admit life 
to be the ultimate scope of the Creation, I 
Mould also desire to behold it supremely 
blest and generally diffused. 

Neighbour. Well then, dear Tuff, 
let us people all the zones of the habitable 
globe, all the elements, with the stamina of 
life! Wheresoever, within the whole cir- 
cuit of inanimate Nature, we find materials 
of nutrition, let us transplant some species 
or other of animals to enjoy this nutriment. 
Is not this measure just and rational ? 

Tuff. Most assuredly it is ! 

Neighbour. Moreover we must care- 
fully provide for the conservation of all 
those races of animals, which subsist upon 
grass, upon roots, flowers, leaves, wood, 
or moss, nay, even of those which derive 
their sustenance from a redundancy of 
juices in others. Is not this feasible ? 

Tuff. Perfectly so. 

Neighbour. On the other hand, we 

must expel all predatory animals : we must 
proscribe all sanguinary tigers, we must 
dismantle and expunge all insidious cob- 
webs from the face of the Creation. 



307 



" Exactly so!*' exclaimed Tuff, quite 
overjoyed. " Let us be sure to sweep them 
all away i" 

Neighbour. But what shall we do with 
the hawks, Mr. Tuff? Shall we not at least 
shew some mercy to the unfeathered tribe of 
hawks ? 

Tuff. For God's sake give them no 
quarter. Let them content themselves with 
a vegetable diet. Do not, moreover, for- 
get to extirpate all noxious vermin and 
lizards. Let every egg produce a chicken, 
and every chicken a hen. 

Neighbour. True! But now r and then 
we must hatch a cock, that we may make 
provision for the propagation of the species. 

Tuff. Your precaution is perfectly just. 
To be sure we must have cocks likewise. 
Upon my soul, I begin to be enamoured 
with this new Creation of ours! What 
universal harmony, what delightful con- 
cord and uninterrupted repose pervades all 
the generations of the living ! 

Neighbour. Mighty well! You are 
perfectly right ! But let us now examine, 
by the light of our reason, the fabric whiffet 
x2 



SOS 



our sportive fancy lias reared. Would you 
be satisfied, my dear Mr. Tuff, if your ears 
could distinguish no other sounds within 
the amphitheatre of the Creation, than the 
crow ing of cocks and the cackling of hens ? 
For if all the cocks and hens of the first 
generation should propagate their species, 
it must needs follow, that in the tenth ge- 
neration they would already have sup- 
planted and proscribed many other races of 
animals from the realm of Nature. Or 
mayhap, you intend occasionally to intro- 
duce a murrain amongst them, in order to 
reduce the different races of animals to 
their just proportions ? 

Tuff. Why so? I cannot see any ab- 
solute necessity for that neither. Let us 
only circumscribe the fecundity of animals, 
and this difficulty will presently be ob- 
viated. 

Neighbour. Aye, but you must like- 
wise remedy a formidable host of evils 
which would grow out of this single 
hypothesis. On this supposition, what a 
fund of social comforts and of activity 
•would be destroyed. Moreover let us 



309 



suppose that contagious distempers should 
ravage the animal creation ; let us suppose 
that the revolutions of inanimate Nature 
should commit depredat ions amongst them ; 
must not whole centuries elapse before 
these ravages could be repaired, belore 
these mighty chasms in the population and 
social comforts of the Creation could be 
adequately filled up? . 

« How!" exclaimed Tuff, evidently dis- 
concerted. " Revolutions! distempers! 

do you say?" 

Neighbour. 1 observe you are already 
greatly embarrassed. But admitting you 
could even provide a remedy for all this; 
are we to suppose that t he animal creation 
W ould continue to live for ever in such a 
state? Must not the energies of Nature be 
finally consumed ? 

Tuff. Doubtless they must be consumed 
at last. I would only not have them de- 
stroyed in their prime or vigour. 

Neighbour, lu that case we should be 
encumbered with a prodigious heap of car- 
casses. For whereas the vital energies ot 
Nature are very prolific, and must conse- 
x3 



310 

quently produce an infinite variety of fing 
animals : where, I .would fain ask, shall 
W| find an asylum for all these carcasses? 
^ Tuff. Let us follow the operations of 
Nature! Let us consign them to corruption 
and putrefaction ! Let us suffer the shape- 
less ruins of (heir organization to resolve 
themselves into their elementary particles, 
to fructify the sapless glebe, to re-produce 
nutrition and fresh fruiis for the conserva- 
tion of the species and of posterity, and let 
us persevere in this mode of conduct on 
the recurrence of a like emergency. 
^ Neighbour. This scheme is very plau- 
sible, my dear friend, did it not require 
■some length of time, or could this dissolu- 
tion and concoction of alimentary materials 
be accomplished in a moment. But, per- 
ad venture, we might impregnate the at- 
mosphere with the seeds of pestilence and 
of destruction, insomuch that our injudi- 
cious benevolence would degenerate into 
cruelty: perchance we might afflict the 
brute creation with many painful and 
morbid diseases, and'precipitate the races 
of animals into a premature grave. You 



Sll 



now clearly perceive, my dear inend, that 
our intemperate zeal for the conservation ot 
life deserves no better appellation than a 
wanton destruction and waste of all vital 
energies, nay, that a world, which we 
would transmute into an enchanting para- 
disc, we are now going to transform into a 
loathsome and pestilential dungeon. 

Tvff. Not exactly so. Methinks you 
would fain take me by surprize. 1 have 
only made you a concession of so many 
vital energies as can fairly subsist wrthout 
being destroyed. We can therefore only 
presume, that such a quantum ot vital prin- 
ciples exists as does not generate contagion 
or pestilence. . 

Keizhbour. But even admitting tins 
hypothesis: cur, you exactly ascertain or 
positively know to what small numbers you 
Lst infallibly diminish the human species . 
Is it not merely the effect of your ow* 
whim or caprice, when you would make 
such a prodigious diminution in the races 
of animals which enjoy the blessings of 
existence, merely under the pretence =ol 
providing a remedy against murder . 1 be 
x 4 



312 



brute creation must finally perish. How 
then, can you pretend to decide whether a 
violent death, as it is the most speedy, be 
not likewise the most easy mode of consum- 
mation ? 

Tqff* The most easy, do you say? I 
should rather suppose that we die far more 
easily in consequence of old age, when- 
death resembles a gentle doze or lethargy. 
But ought m easy death to be the sok 
scope or ultimate goal of our wishes ? Is 
not a lVappy existence a far more desirable 
end ? Are animals exclusively born to die,. 
or are they not rather created to live ? 

Neighbour. But they cannot all die a 
natural death. In tliis particular, me- 
thinks, we are already agreed. 

Here Tuff paused awhile, and after a 
moment's reflection, exclaimed, " Agreed, 
do you say ? No, God forbid t I must 
deny that. How, supposing Nature had 1 
provided an effectual remedy against con- 
tagion and pestilence ?" 

Neighbour. I should be glad to be- 
getter informed on this subject. Pray mJmk 
remedy may this be ? 



313 



Tuff. Only bethink yourself a moment. 
Contemplate for once those less ferocious 
tribes of predatory animals, that are en- 
gendered in the dust, in the atmosphere, 
and in the woody regions, myriads of 
which are re-produced from the moulder- 
ing ruins of dead carcasses, transmuting 
chose fluids nearly coagulated to a state of 
putrefaction, into fresh and salubrious 
juices, and absorbing almost all other cor- 
poreal particles, save only those exudations 
which their own animal bodies evacuate. 
Will n&t those tribes of the brute creafioa 
suffice to cleanse the atmosphere from all 
impurity ? Will they not suffice to pre- 
serve the tide of life immaculate and un- 
tainted ? 

Neighbor. No. For they must like- 
wise become a heap of dead carcasses, and 
be finally resolved into putrefaction. I see 
no grounds why we must make an excep- 
tion in their favour. Now if they must 
likewise perish, those dreadful evils which 
we propose to remedy must arrive at last,, 
although undoubtedly somewhat later. 

Tuff. Be it so I They must arrive a* 



314 



length 5 but they will be considerably dimi- 
nished. These tribes of living creatures 
consume more particles of animal food 
during theilr lifetime than what they can 
possibly leave behind them when they pe- 
rish. For this very reason, I should ima- 
gine that, provided in the room of these 
swarms we substitute others, proceeding in 
one uniform, progressive ratio, the mass 
of corruption and of putrefaction would 
at length become proportionally very small. 

Neighbour. A very ingenious contri- 
vance upon my soul ! But I should be glad 
to know how it comes to pass that we weie 
so panic-struck the other day in the fir- 
grove, whilst we were contemplating the 
dead carcasses ? "W hence arose this pheno- 
mena ? For according to your hypothesis, 
those animals which ought to guard against 
infection and contagion did actually exist. 

Tifff. Alas ! I recollect the circumstance 
perfectly well. It was a most ghastly spec- 
tacle. 

Neighbour. Tut! my good friend. 
Pry thee, do not talk so incoherently. If 
the spectacle was ghastly, it was simply 



313 



owing to this circumstance, that it served 
to remind us on the atmosphere. No spec- 
tacle, abstractedly considered, can be 
loathsome in itself. If I mistake not, we 
clapped our hands to our noses and not to 
our eyes. 

Tuff was abashed, and remained speech- 
less awhUe. At length he exclaimed, u Is 
not this a lamentable proof of the imbe- 
cility of my intellect ?" 

Neighbour. Excuse me, friend. Your 
cause was a bad one. Whoever would 
be wiser than Nature, must ultimately be 
worsted. I suppose you will now be can- 
did enough to acknowledge, that by our in- 
novations we have strangely vitiated the 
mundane system. 

Tuff. I must needs confess that appear- 
ances are against us. 

Neighbour. Well then ! We must en- 
deavour to provide some remedy or other. 
There is one that just occurs to me, which 
is very effective and substantial ; but I am 
still doubtful whether or not it will meet 
with your approbation. 



316 



Tuff. Why not ? Let us hear what it 

is, I beseech you ! 

Neighbour. The advantages that would 
hence accrue, would be incalculable. By 
this hypothesis, all those animals which 
derive their sustenance from the vegetable 
kingdom, would retain their energies of pro- 
creation entire and unimpaired; all those 
myriads, which, conformably to our ori- 
ginal scheme, must be expunged from the 
volume of Nature, would continue to en- 
joy the blessings of existence, and would 
transmit these blessings to their posterity : 
the vital principles would be multiplied, 
and the flame of life (which would be ex- 
tinguished without this salutary provision) 
would burn with a brighter lustre, and dif- 
fuse a more kindly warmth. 

" How so ? By what contrivance ?" ex- 
claimed Tuff, with eager impatience. 

Neighbour. Even by the self-same con- 
trivance whereby the whole fabric of Na- 
ture is upheld : by those jarring elements, 
fey that conflict of adverse energies which 
sustain the harmonious equilibrium of the 



317 

Creation, which reduce every thing to its 
just proportions, are engaged in a perpe- 
tual strife, but nevertbeless preserve the 

equipoise of the whole- 

Tuff. I have a shrewd guess that you 

allude to the introduction of predatory 

animals. 

Neighbour. To what else, think you, 
could I possibly allude? Shall a Being of 
such imperfect, and circumscribed intelli- 
gence as a poor frail mortal, devise ways 
and means which an omniscient Creator 
has not already anticipated or reduced to 
practice? Do any faint glimmerings of 
light illumine our souls, which do not 
emanate from the fountain-head of everlast- 
kre splendours ? Does our reason apprehend 
any thing, save only the reflections of his 
transcendant glories? Let us suffer man 
quietly to occupy his station within the 
realm of Nature, to destroy millions of 
animals, and to resolve them into vital 
iuices! Let us tolerate a host of ferocious 
depredators! Let us suffer them to ravage 
those tribes of animals, which subsist upon 
vegetables, which reside in the air, m n- 



315 



Ters, in the ocean, in the dust, moreover, 
in all the habitable zones and elements • 
which for all the thousand victims they 
have b, molated, can only deposit one single 
carcass, nay, which oftentimes afford sus- 
tenance to others before their dead carcasses 
mingle with the dust. If any overplus 
should remain, let us consign it a prey to 
those beasts and reptiles which subsist on 
dead bodies. Man, as he is the head of 
the animal creation, is likewise the pow- 
erful agent and instrument of their conser- 
vation. For his species is very numerous, 
he lives to a great age, he commits depre- 
dat.ons upon allthedivers races of the brute 
creation. His reason instructs him to burn 
the dead bodies of his own species, or to 
prepare for them an earthly sepulchre, as 
also for the dead carcasses of beasts, if they 
should chance to incommode him. Thus 
^ k, my dear friend, and thus it must ever 



?>main 



319 



THE 

RECEPTACLE FOR LUNATICS. 



In the early stage of Ins youth, the 
shining talents of young Friedberg pleaded 
so effectually in his behalf, as to procure 
him an employment in the metropolis. His 
father, a worthy country clergyman, after 
having superintended the education of his 
son, and having in the sequel expended all 
his substance to advance his intellectual 
improvement, resolved to accompany him 
on his last expedition, disregarding the in- 
firmities of age, and the fatigues of a tedious 
peregrination. 

« I must behold him settled in life," said 
the veteran, " and must give this signal 
testimony of my affection, that he may 
cherish my memory. He will imitate the 
virtues of his father, and will hereafter 
become an ■ affectionate parent himself." 



320 



Without farther ceremony, he took leave 
of his spouse, disengaged her son from her 
maternal embrace, and commenced his 
journey. 

Upon their arrival, they inspected the 
most remarkable curiosities of the town, 
and the day previous to the departure of 
the old man, they visited the public recep- 
tacle for Lunatics. 

The variety of melancholy scenes which 
he witnessed there, communicated sensible 
impressions to the youth, which were ag- 
gravated by their novelty. He had never 
before beheld human nature reduced to 
such an abject state of humiliation. But 
above all, his sympathy was chiefly attracted 
by the spectacle of a friendly veteran, who 
had once been a man of merit and respec- 
tability, but now, in all his words and ac- 
tions, betrayed the imbecility of a child. 
The overseer acquainted them that this un- 
happy victim had been dishonoured and 
impoverished by the profligacy of his sons, 
whereby his intellects were ultimately dis- 
ordered. To every particular of his narra- 
tive 5 the veteran, with a ghastly smile, 



321 



nodded his assent, as if willing to corrobo- 
rate the truth of what he advanced, 

" Formerly," pursued the overseer, " he 
had some lucid intervals, when he became 
perfectly conscious of his condition: on 
these occasions, he would implore the Deity 
to release him from his earthly tabernacle 
in such heart-piercing tones, as melted my 
own obdurate soul, accustomed to such-like 
scenes. Now he is no longer subject to 
these momentary transports ; his solicitude 
about his mental derangement has actually 
extinguished the faint glimmerings of rea- 
son. This fact was likewise corroborated 
by the veteran, with a friendly nod of 
assent ; and looking as though he had a 
glimpse of his former estate, he lifted up 
his eyes, swimming in tears, towards 
Heaven." 

Absorbed in silent meditations, the youth 
accompanied his father to his dwelling, 
Upon their arrival, after a short pause, he 
suddenly exclaimed: " Gracious God! 
what a dreadful calamity it is to be bereft 
of our reason ! Since 1 have been capable 
of reflection, I was never so dreadfully 
panic-struck, or felt such an awful tremor ) 
y 



322 



To be, and nevertheless to be bereft of 
being ! To become a breathing corpse in 
the bloom of youth, the wandering shadow 
of a departed soul ! For what else are these 
unhappy victims of adversity ? 

" If our proper being consists in a con- 
scious sense of existence, what else is a de- 
reliction of this consciousness, but death 
and absolute annihilation ? Let us more- 
over contemplate the manner in which these 
afflicted mortals are treated ! They are ex- 
punged from the catalogue of the living; 
they are incarcerated and entombed, as if 
they no longer existed, as if they had no 
organs of perception. You enter their cham- 
ber; you recapitulate the doleful tale of 
their sorrows : they sit and patiently lis- 
ten to your recital. It is just for all the 
world, as if you were standing before the 
image of some exanimate being, who was 
once a man like yourself, but is now no 
more !" 

Here he paused ; walked hastily to and 
fro, and then exclaimed : " I have often- 
times been alarmed with the idea that I did 
exist, from the recollectvm of what I mi 
once become." 



323 



c< But," subjoined his father, w how 
greatly soever I compassionate the case of 
these unfortunate beings, it is far more 
tremendous in idea than in experimental 
sensation. Can a privation of conscious- 
ness be afflicting to one who is insensible of 
his loss?" 

Son. Certainly not; as little as the 
idea of deatli can affect a man already 
defunct. But supposing this sensibility 
should still exist, or be resuscitated afresh ? 
Supposing the frantic wretch, with bitter 
tears, should petition the Deity for an ab- 
solute extinction of his being ? Or, wrung 
with heartfelt anguish, like Swift, of old, 
pointing to the withered top of a tree, 
should exclaim : c Behold its decay com- 
mences from above V 

" Moderate your transports," said the 
father: " You imagine the consciousness 
of these unhappy wretches is as powerful 
and unclouded as your own ; but their en- 
feebled, disordered organization is not sus- 
ceptible of such exalted sensibility. But 
were they even susceptible, an intelligent 
physician would only despond, when his 



324 



patient has no longer any sensation of bis 
sufferings. On this supposition, we might 
cherish some hopes of a recovery." 

Son. Hopes! Alas! they Avould be the 
hopes of a criminal, when conducted to 
the place of condign punishment ! An ob- 
scure melancholy glimpse of hope ! But, 
father, consider, I beseech you, those 
pangs of terror inseparably annexed to 
these hopes. Let us picture to ourselves 
this dreadful calamity in its true colours ! 
Let us suppose that we have so much sen- 
sation left as to feel all our vital faculties 
lamed ; that we barely possess reason 
enough to have a perception of its gradual 
decay ; to contemplate the gradual extinc- 
tion of that vital spark of heavenly flame, 
which communicated light and genial 
warmth to our souls ! Let us suppose that 
we are not only tormented with a dreadful 
expectancy of final annihilation, but also 
behold our energies wasting and consuming 
until they dwindle away to a helpless state 
of infancy. Gracious God ! what a sen- 
sation must this be! But how, supposing 
it should be the fate of a man who had 



325 



nearly surmounted the pinnacle of intelleo 
tual excellence ? How, supposing such an 
individual should have a glimpse of that 
dreadful abyss, yawning beneath him, 
whilst he already finds his vascillating foot 
give way, and there is no longer any sure 
footing to rest upon ? 

Alas! Methinks I behold him yonder! 
I behold the poor shuddering wretch poised 
upon his arm! With one furious effort, 
he summons to his aid all his vital ener- 
gies, and struggles to bound upwards with 
an elastic spring. But his efforts are un- 
availing. His own specific gravity makes 
him recoil, until, in an agony of despair, 
he abandons all hope, and suddenly dis- 
appears. Aon intimated something con- 
cerning some obscure glimmerings of con- 
sciousness. If these obscure glimmerings 
should make such a dreadful sensation upon 
those who are simply reduced to a helpless 
state of infancy; how (I ask) are we to 
suppose they must operate upon those 
frantic beings, whose blood is in such an 
uproar that they must be shackled and 
manacled I 

v 3 



326 



Here he paused again, and his father 
Temained speechless, in a pensive, con- 
templative mood : for the sorrow of parting 
lay heavy upon his heart. He pondered 
in his mind the great distance by which 
they were going to be separated from each 
other, contemplated the dangers which 
would encompass the stripling, considered 
moreover the fire and impetuosity of his 
temper, insomuch that all this, together 
with the impressions he had just received, 
made his breast heave with heartfelt com- 
miseration. 

<€ Death/' resumed the son, " has been 
called the most tremendous of all that dire 
assemblage of evils which afflict human 
life; what shall we say, I beseech you,, 
concerning lunacy, which makes death 
itself desirable ? In fact ? what is that bug- 
bear, which we are accustomed to designate 
by the appellation of death ? 

u If it be the common destiny of every 
mortal; if it be entirely left at our own 
option, or solely depend upon the magna* 
nimity of our character, whether or not 
this final consummation be the most glo» 



nous period of our lives; when every 
by-stander who beholds an exanimate 
corpse, meditating upon his own death, 
smites his breast in silent agony, whilst 
the eyes of the unhappy victim, uncon- 
scious of this commiseration, are sealed in 
everlasting slumbers: how slight, how tri- 
vial is all this ! compared with that lai 
ffi0 re terrific species of death, when in 
many instances, our sympathy is nothing 
better than disdain, than arrogant mockery 
and derision; when the defunct can con- 
tribute nothing towards makinghis wretched 
condition honourable ; when he often break? 
I oose from his sepulchre, in order to have 
a mournful glimpse of those dreadfid ra- 
v^es which his nature has undergone. 

« Your imagination," cried the father, 
« coniures up a hideous group of images. 

Son. But have I drawn an exaggerated 
picture ? The misery of human nature dis- 
closes itself in a thousand deformed shapes 
l0 my intellectual eye; but in none o. 
th«* shapes does it appear so truly diabo- 
lical or tremendous. 

Father. Because this single phantom 



528 

happens to stand foremost upon your pic 
ture; because it j s encompassed with the 
Wrongest glare of light. When our sym- 
pathy is once awakened for any object ; in 
the momentary transports of our delirium, 
all other images are subtracted from our 
view, save only this very identical ima-e 
surrounded with a blaze of light. How, sup- 
Posing I could Ascribe to you a species of 
misery, surpassing thatyou have mentioned ? 

Son. Suffer it to remain nameless, I 
beseech you. 

Father. From the horrors of death, you 
Conceived yourself warranted to infer the 
tar more tremendous horrors of lunacy 
because the latter condition appears to make 
the former desirable. Prosecute vour in- 
quiries, and represent to yourself a state of 
superlative woe, compared with which, 
lunacy itself is a blessing. Do you ima- 
gine that my assertion is rash or unfounded \ 
rum your regards, I beseech you, towards 
those profligate wretches, who brought 
that cruel calamity upon their father, whose 
fate you have just now so feelingly la- 
mented. When they onqe awake (no mat- 



329 

ter how soon or how late) from their deli- 
rium ; when they contemplate the unspeak- 
able woe they have occasioned, the abso- 
lute impossibility of making an atonement 
for their crimes; moreover, the dreadful 
ravages which their constitution has under- 
gone : when loaded with shame and branded 
with infamy, they abhor themselves, inso- 
much that the very prospect of Eternity — 
a prospect which is consoling to other 
wretches, is beclouded : say 5 is not this 
awakening of their conscience far more 
tremendous, than the awakened conscious- 
ness of a lunatic, clanking his chains upon 
his pallet of straw r ? Would not the former 
deem this suspension of intellect a blessing, 
which the latter deplores as a calamity ? 

Son. True, father! You have insen- 
sibly conducted me to the gates of hell. 

Father. And yet, methinks, I have 
been too hasty in censuring your opinion. 
Even this species of misery is likewise a 
kind of lunacy. Examine the ground- 
work of your moral duties. Are they a 
penal code, imposed upon you by an ar- 
bitrary sovereign, who derives a benefit 



330 



from your thraldom ? Are they the sta~ 
lutes of some wily despot, who employs 
them as the instruments of his sanguinary 
temper, in order to inflict punishment ? Or, 
are they not ratiier elementary principles 
implanted in your nature, without which 
the design and scope of your being could 
not be accomplished ? 

Son. Most assuredly, father, they are 
the conditional postulata, the fundamental 
basis of my happiness, which the omni- 
potent Creator himself cannot supplant, 
without demolishing the whole fabric of 
my nature. 

Father. "Well then! Virtue herself is 
consequently nothing else but the innate 
consciousness of our moral obligations, of 
cur mental energies and various relations, 
reduced to practice. But what is vice, her 
counterpart ? What else but a total derelic- 
tion of this consciousness ? What else but 
an eclipse of the soul, now and then irra- 
diated by a few dreadful gleams of light, 
by a few lucid intervals ? Consult the opi- 
nions of the world at large. The world is 
accustomed to stigmatize vice with all the 



331 

various appellations of lunacy, through 
all her several stages ; from the first slight 
symptoms of folly, to the paroxysms of 
ungovernable rage. It applies moreover 
the same correctives to the one as to the 
other denomination of madmen. They 
are incarcerated, shackled, and scourged ; 
or, if they be permitted to enjoy their li- 
berty, these unhappy wretches wander 
about, like unto that harmless description 
of lunatics, whose case a liberal man is 
wont to compassionate, but whom the vul- 
gar multitude derides. You stand musings 
my son, and bewildered in thought ! 

Son. I was startled at the picture of 
vice which you have just drawn. 

Father. Then all my wishes are ac- 
complished. I was desirous to render those 
impressions we have just received, durable 
and efficacious. What avails it to bewail 
the fate of wretched lunatics ? No advan- 
tage results either to them or to us from 
this commiseration. All the emolument 
that accrues to us, amounts to this : that 
we feel the temporary influence of humane 
impressions \ but wh^t sort of impressions, 



332 



I beseech you ? They are of a nature truly 
deplorable and humiliating, where we can- 
not display our active functions, and which 
it were better, we had never known. But, 
on the other hand, we are free moral agents, 
who range within the spacious domains of 
liberty ,where our faculties areuncontrouled, 
and may display their active functions. 
We cannot contend with Fate, that tyran- 
nical goddess ; but we may encounter and 
overcome that syren, Sensuality . Let 
us not suffer ourselves therefore to be dis- 
quieted with alarms on such occasions, 
where they are of no avail, save only 
in such cases when we may derive some 
emolument. Do you not conceive, my 
son, that the misery consequent upon vice, 
ought to alarm us most, when it assumes 
the most formidable aspect. 

Son. We may however guard against 
it. We are not so much subject to alarms 
in broad daylight as at the hour of mid- 
night. We do not dread an open enemy 
so much as an insidious assassin. 

Father. I will grant that your observa* 



333 



tion is perfectly just. But let us superadd 
to this reflection, another consideration. 
Whatever serves to diminish our apprehen- 
sions on the approach of calamity, aggra- 
vates our dismay when the blow has ac- 
tually taken place. To consider ourselves 
as the sole authors of our misery! to be 
ourselves t lie sole subjects of our own curses 
and abhorrence ! Gracious God ! How re- 
plete with horror and anguish is such an 
idea ! 

Impressed with a conviction of this truth, 
whither, I ask, does your observation 
finally conduct us ? Does it persuade us to 
shut our eyes and dream ; to perform our 
pilgrimage through life, wholly unmindful 
of the road we are travelling, whereby we 
voluntarily deprive ourselves of the genial 
rays of light ? Or does it warn us to guard 
with vigilant circumspection against those 
tremendous precipices which environ the 
paths of happiness, or to arm ourselves 
with magnanimous resolution against those 
menacing dangers which encompass us 
around ? Let us now recollect that spec- 
tacle which has just convulsed your soul 



334 



with such a dreadful shock! Imagine 
yourself in the situation of one of those 
ideots, who recognizes the first symptoms 
of lunacy in his own mind, by remarking 
a frequent distraction and irregular pa- 
roxysms of extravagant passion. In that 
case, you might still conceive hopes of re* 
deeming yourself from this forlorn condi- 
tion. Say, would you not summon to 
your aid all the collective energies of your 
will, in order to realize this possibility? 

Son. Gra€ious God ! 

Father. Vice herself, son, has also her 
morbid symptoms, her occasional pa- 
roxysms. Happy is that youth, who, 
when he discovers them, feels compunction 
and abhorrence! Their usual indications 
are headstrong passions and disorderly ap- 
petites. That serene unclouded conscious- 
ness which we have already discovered 
to be synonimous with virtue, requires a 
placid composure of soul. Whoever there- 
fore has been stimulated by his appetites to 
transgress the laws of decorum; whoever 
lias been betrayed by the delirium of pas- 
sion into a violation of his moral duties > 



235 



such an individual lias cause to be jealous 
and alarmed. He is rapidly approaching 
towards the most deplorable condition of 
humanity, towards the state of a vicious 
lunatic. 

The son quickly comprehended the sig- 
nificant but affectionate glance of his father. 
It reminded him on several follies of his 
past life, which might have proved fatal to 
him. 

" But," resumed the father, u what re- 
sources does a young man yjossess in order 
to ensure an easy triumph to the calm sug- 
gestions of reason over his fierce appetites? 
This triumph is not only possible, but is 
actually realized in some of the bestindivi- 
duals amongst the human species, being 
the exclusive privilege of an accomplished 
sage, already mature in years and judg- 
ment, not of a raw youth, whose habits 
and principles have not been confirmed. 
In the latter, fancy and sensation have the 
ascendancy and preponderance. The best, 
nay perhaps the only thing he can do for 
his own safety, is to conciliate his fancy 
and affections with his reason, and assimi- 



336 



late the recollection of his moral duties so 
closely with all the refined affections of his 
heart, that, on the first suggestions of con- 
science, this recollection and those affec- 
tions are revived at the self-same instant in 
his breast, operating with all their fire and 
energy. 



THE END. 



Printed by B. M'Milbn, 7 
*«wSue€t, Coy ent -Garden. \ 



X? 5f> 




- 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnes,um 0*de 
Treatment Date: Nov. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLDLEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Dn« 
Cranberry Township, PA 16056 
(724)779-2111 



